I remember the day you said,
"Ah, yours is a familiar face."
It was summer,
we were ripe.
I drew yours in many lines.
That look littered all of my books-
and burned scars into my mind.
Now some time,
and it's bitter cold.
Yours has become lost and old.
I try to pull the lines together
every single chilly night.
I look at the photos I have left
and I still can't get it right.
Her face keeps blocking my view.
She has come and taken you.
Ah, yours was a familiar face.
But now it's all but a trace.