We sit in our little bottle of memories, throwing words like shooting stars, flaming meanings encased in easy metaphors. Phrases passed back and forth, each of us telling our own carefully fabricated truths to unravel the other’s. It’s all flourescent lights and streaked linoleum floors around us, a familiar backdrop for the last scene of our never-ending play.
It’s a little to universal, a little too cliché, so we’ll keep our little conversations to ourselves until the tables turn and the chips are pushed to the middle of the table. Another game of luck, something like destiny and that thing you like to call fate. You’ve torched enough of your bridges to gain a reputation, and I’ve always been blind in one eye.
Playing cards corners curl as the white turns to black and liquid fire turns the paper edges to little anthills of ashes. Again and again, until all that remains is the king of hearts and the queen of spades