index | archives | notes Friday, Aug. 26, 2005 2:27 a.m. << [ What it is to Burn ] >> It smells like paper burning, and I remember two months ago, the three of us huddled in a playground burning pictures. He was lighting matches, throwing them away and lighting more; she was doing all the real burning out of spite, and my mother and I were arguing. Sparks glowed orange against the black of the cheap rubber they use in play structures, and we walked back to her house. We ate cake baked just for him and wrestled on her floor, knocking over books and pictures and eachother. In the end we were all in one another's arms, brushing hair out of eyes and confessing love that would end two weeks later. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org