I imagine myself crafting a story. You'll be a character, with a new name. A reanimated corpse perhaps, but it will have to do. This is my testimony to those moments that decayed long ago. I loved you once. Now your memory casts a shadow in my dreams. I see a familiar silhouette just around the corner. I reach out with a mirage of ***** fingers. My love is like an old crumpled photograph that has been flattened, and embedded to the inside of my eye lid. When I close my eyes I can almost make out the image. I tired to rip out the photo, to put it in a more appropriate place, but maybe such a photo album would be an embarrassment and I'm afraid that I'm not dexterous enough to perform such a surgery and remain intact. So, ink and paper will have to do. Maybe if I darken the page enough your ghost can find a home there. It's crowded in here. I'm not sure if I have enough space to house the two of us forever. I never asked for my mind to become a graveyard, after all.