An old story

Her body is an empty house once bought by a man for the price of love. The man used to enter with care and take pride in decorating it with expensive trinkets.

Soon he came and went as he pleased. He locked the door always but left the shutters open so as to let curious people look in but never enter. Soon he stopped coming altogether. Still he would not sell the house.

The house grows tired, old and has become so cold as there is no one to light the fire anymore. The dampness is rising and the foundations are crumbling.

It is a shame that no one ever comes to save her, and discover the beauty that lay within neglect.

The beauty in neglect.

The beauty in neglect.

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.