When people ask me what I miss about you, I tell them your body, I tell them how;
I miss your head and how smart you are, I miss learning from you.
I miss your eyes, and how I would catch you looking at me.
I miss your ears and how they would listen to me complain, or ramble on when I was excited.
I miss your lips, and all those nights of pillow talk.
I miss your chest, and how I would calm instantly when I laid my head on it.  
I miss your arms and the way they used to hold me.
I miss your hands, and how they would hold mine.
I miss hearing your legs walking up my stairs, and the way your warm feet would lay beside mine.
your body was my home, but now it’s burned down leaving me with nothing more than ashes and memories.