Shifty Brent - Matchbook Fever

I feed one dime and call your room,
Your voice brings heat to the payphone gloom.
You cross the doorway where the low lamps glow,
I taste the danger before you say hello.
The trumpet whispers against my skin,
I close my eyes and invite it in.
By morning only, the black ash stays,
Still I keep that cover for another day.
Each little flame says,
"This is the last," then your fingers toss and the warning burns past.
Matchbook fever burning through me,
Matchbook fever I won't set it free.