Remember when you told me how you made matchsticks in the factory. I asked too many questions and you told me every time, my boyish enthusiasm and your static compulsion for anything that had something to do with making, creating, doing something with your hands. I told you you are a very interesting man and you just smiled.
So I lent you my copy of Lord of the Flies to which you never read as I would find out soon after. You lent me your favorite action movies to which I watched to help me understand you better, thinking I could only like you better if I understood what you liked.
The carpenter that you were, you shut your mouth every time I told you something, as if I was instructing you to build a house for me and you were already thinking of how long it would take you to. I thought if you were listening.
I wanted to be honest with you, my carpenter. All I really wanted to do was to read you. But before I could have ran the circle to make that point, you lit the matchstick, smoked your cigarette, and walked away.
Your hammer, you forgot, was with me.
