He carried a little black box with him at all times, tied it together with ribbon and in small neat handwriting wrote on it 'My Best Intentions'. Very few people knew that the box had always been empty. He paraded it around, held it close and gave the impression that it was something very dear to him, that empty little box.
He always wore a chocolate-coloured coat, on the inside of which he'd sown on a few pockets. In small neat stitches he put labels on each. The one labeled 'My Love' held a twenty-six piece childrens' puzzle that assembled to form the letters of the alphabet. His second pocket was labeled 'My Time'. It contained a broken string of pearls. The third, and last, pocket labeled 'Morals/Dignity/Respect/Honesty/Self' was empty, like the box.
And one day he fell in love, with that friend, the one who held him together and actually meant something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out five puzzle pieces to spell her name. He sliced open his chest, and there he placed them, like a title upon his heart. To honour her. She loved him too, but he wasn't all that she wanted and when she set off to find that man, the one she'd be proud to love, she decided he was extra baggage that couldn't be taken along on her journey. So she left, just like that. With all the explanations and reasons given, she left. And he was left helpless with branded heart and all. He would cut himself and pull her out but that was pain even he couldn't take one more time. What was he to do?
He has been around a long time and now he knows how things usually turn out and so he never intends for anything at all. He lets them grow until the roots and stems become so strong that they break through the walls of their round glass bowls. They overflow and bubble and leak out to form a flood. Leaving him no place to stand and so he withdraws and quits.
His existence is lingering but fading towards permanent.
If he could set words to fire, he'd only set fire to himself. He swore to God. Yes, he did.
