Another old story.

I was so cold that night and the firewood was no more.

All that was left to burn in my little room was an old wooden chair and my paintings; the ones I painted for you, the ones I painted of you, and in every brushstroke my memory of you and I.

So I carried the old wooden chair and sat it by the fireplace, gathered the precious paintings and offered them to the hearth.

I sat on the chair and lit my last match- An Inferno…

You kept me so warm that night.