A Faded Face

My pillows never feel a warm embrace -
my pen is always dancing in the night;
trying to describe a faded face,
splashing paint on patterns black and white -
Photographs, to me, are never certain;
the walls from which they hang are mine alone.
Our laughing ghosts could never draw the curtains
on present day's interior abode -
Though feelings (good and bad) of you are fleeting,
and Summer may encapsulate my heart,
I wish for us to share another meeting,
And then perhaps I may wish to depart.
I only need to quell a thought recurring:
A faded face may be all that you are.