‘Vague memories, nothing but memories.’ – Yeats.*

Lost again are you in your thoughts?
The parades of events march you by.
Faces, nothing but faces.
Vague blurs of eyes, haunting your dreams,
Blank black backgrounds,
Sheer silence screams for significance,
Why can I not remember?
Touches, footprints, words left incomplete,
You go back, try to at least,
To print out your shaky emotions
For in record you will behold your sorrowful story,
Long absences of warmth,
Overwhelming joy of being wanted,
And the lies behind each and every sly grin.
You wait, any moment now, right?
You wait, with patience devoid of hope, you wait.
What are you waiting for?
Faces, nothing but faces.
They pass you by, soulless and aimless,
Without a purpose, they enter your existence.
Little acts which accompany a quite smile,
Shy in its being, hidden from judgment,
It exists.
Upon some isolate dark corner,
Palms upholding your sunken face, you sit,
On one corner of the bed
Among the sea of sheets lying ruffled,
You drift away.