Faded

A postcard- maybe a

Twenty years old or more.

Faded ink; the lines stutter 

With missing words.

A dried flower in the diary,

A bit of fragrance and the rest-

Smelling away like soot of

Burnt paper.

In the same dark room,

An unrecognisable voice of

Someone from the past- 

Singing in whispers.

It's strange how memories,

Stick around-

Songs without a voice. 

Flowers without fragrance. 

The pics in the old closets-

Some with their faces 

Scratched off. Others

Beneath the fingernails-

As edgy bits that still 

Manage to feebly live on.