it wasn’t a common surface.
it was coarse; it was red.
faded streaks of white embedded as well.
something that she played within her nimble hands.
she’s been playing with the box for quite sometime now.
sliding the inner piece in and out, in and out.
perhaps she was stuck on a thought or two for awhile.
she didn’t have to do this, she hadn’t needed to do this.
but it was getting cold. she needed warmth.
the strike was beautiful. it produced just the right flame.
a product of the perfect pace and inserted force.
“such a waste,” she sighed.
dropped from her cage, she threw the stick away.
warmth came. but it was too warm. just too warm.