She is afraid of the lighter, the flint, the feedback from imaginary moonshine. It is a twist of slow, icicle burns. She watches from a distance, all hot and bothered by the red glimmering exposure. She has to say strike to justify the texture, the raw the piles and stacks of potential heat. It's not unlike her own love letters, how they coil like snakes in the impossible comfort of shine. Even she wants to show you how she waited for them to love her. Every time, they die until anther one grows. Artifacts, fossils. Bullets and moons that seem to whisper in the smoke.