I walked past my house, the house that I once knew. It sighed, all but pillars left amidst ash and stain. I blame no one but myself for setting that fire. It burns, you know.

The fire was innocent at first. I never wanted it, but its merry licks and bright skirts entranced me. As it grew, the walls around me turned to cinder; the photographs coiled in regret.

In the end, I had to leave. The fire was too strong; my passion.

Next time, a candle in the dark, not a blaze.

I just walked past my house.