bermuda

I’ve always loved lighting matches. I love the scratch of it. The fwaaah of ignition. I especially love wooden matches. Matchbooks, made of paperboard dipped in thin wax, bend too easily; the matches are short.

I like how the flame pools blue near the wood, blonde heap of fire all around it. And I like how the matchhead, burnt and abandoned by flame, embers red and turns skeletal. But most of all I love the smell of sulphur when the match is extinguished, a hut in autumn doused with dry rum.