“Why burn bridges?” my cousin asks me, on the snowy globe of his mother’s home.

How can he see, as he stands tall like a king, that he is only a court jester?

All I did was set the match ablaze and toss it in front of me to expose the puddles of gasoline that had been laid beneath me by those I trusted. I don’t burn bridges; they burn themselves.

I should hand him some matches, maybe give him a chance to see how underlined it all is. Like a chapter in a book, I’ve read it all before.

I should buy him a helmet, as he seems to be pedaling towards the same story that sits on our family’s dusty shelf.

It’s tired.

I guess that’s why I write. I’d like some new stories. Maybe a change in what we all know to be “right” and “wrong”. I’d say everyone could get over themselves. Maybe I’m “wrong” for that. Oh well…