Move along, there's nothing left to see

The bones of this house are
cold. They are most frigid
at the center where the marrow
has grown weak and dry, while
the air outside has become
crisp -- smelling of burning leaves
as they crackle and curl
in a flash of golden embers.
I sit somewhere inside as
an empty home breathes in
and out, craving the scent
of electric heat, I click
my heels hoping to
spark the thermostat.
The old metal vents
fashioned into a sinking
ceiling begin to sing,
their rusty shafts blow
an uncomfortably warm
breeze onto my scalp.
I think of better days,
inhale the foreign smoke
of dry tobacco, and
wait for first frost.
The trees undress
along with me as the
sun tucks itself away
at an earlier hour and
we remain -- stark, naked,
and insatiably hungry
for something hotter
than this.