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.