I called your name until the fever broke    
but I caught my room on fire.      

It turned the clothes that were in my closet    
into bones of burnt desires.    

The sheets we used to sleep between    
are only ashes on my bed.    

All of the smoke that filled the air    
felt like your voice inside my head.    

These four walls became a furnace    
and nostalgia fueled the flames.    

Which made the arsonist in me    
want it all to stay ablaze.    

But it charred the lips that you used to kiss,    
and scorched the hands you used to hold.    

Yet, in a room of torrid memories,  
I’ve never felt this cold.