I left my matches under our hotel bed, praying you’d burn this hollow room to ashes just as I wish I could with these awful memories of ours.
We’ve become nothing more than pseudonym characters who leave imprints in messy bed sheets with tired eyes, smoking endlessly.
And, all that’s left is these cigarette ashes and the smoke spiralling above it,
not a single pin of sound except this little voice in my head saying...
“don’t forget to leave your matches, and hope she burns this hollow room to ashes."