I often find myself wondering if you are anything like I remember. If there is any piece of who you were, left.

I’m a burning house these days, homing your memory. It lives in me, haunting, the ghost of my desires. And in the end, it will burn through my floors, crawl up the walls, take me down at the foundation. And my exhausted frame will fall by your ways.

And the lesson here, don’t play with an open flame when your home is painted with fuel.

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