Pale

To everyone else it looked like a regular match. It looked like a regular fire. I could see that it was different, but no one else would understand. The fire glowed and sparked as I delicately touched it, with the end of my burnt fingertips. As I lie in the hospital bed, the fire grows dimmer and dimmer each passing day, and there is nothing I can do about it. And I fear the day that I wouldn’t wake up, and the fire would no longer be ignited, only a wooden stick with burnt ash at the tip of it.