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.