these streets are cold and lonely

but where else am I supposed to go

when you burnt our house down

but instead of drenching it in gasoline

and making sure it was nothing but ash

you preserved it

just enough to leave the fragile frame standing

and a few of the pictures hanging on the wall survived just barely

you left all the bones

with the thought that maybe, one day

once I get past the devastation

we could build our house again

but I wish you had finished the job

after all, it wasn’t really you who lit the fire

but the other person you brought into our home

(I guess you told her you lived alone)