Flicker

There's a man standing in front of me. Tight jeans. Ironed collar. A black messenger bag anchors him as our subway car traces a red line up Broadway. He catches my judgment, eyeing the cigarette lighter in his right hand. He doesn't realize that I'm yearning to see a flame. He doesn't realize that both our lives have been colored in red.

I catch myself holding my breath as he tilts the lighter into the palm of his left hand. I smell a click. He flips his ignited palm over and looks up, holding the promise of searing flesh for an instant. The ventilation blows it out. He doesn't look at me anymore. He doesn't look at anyone. The subway lurches forwards as he reignites his hand. I'm staring. It isn't horror. It's awe. He doesn't mind the pain. He'll do anything to catch a flaming spirit in his hand. He's burning bridges between man and mortality to hold the fleeting and intangible between his fingertips. He's holding moments.

It's comforting to know that people can't look through me yet.
My smiles aren't overcompensating, they're perfecting my self deception.

Your condition is only real when diagnosed, right?

My palm is open and the flame is searing into my less than consciousness.
Don't blow it out.
I'm scared of the dark