Thursday, 12 November 2015

This is a ghost of a place because I resided elsewhere. There's a haunt of memories of attempting to convey something, I forget what. The book shelves are dusty as its been long since one has pulled out the paperback as it left trails of clean wood. Each book has memories of love laughter and people. Some are nearer to the desks of the school and some are closer to goodbyes in the airport.

Traces and trails. No one will know of our histories without the traces we will choose to leave behind. The hearts shall remain unwritten. There will be ghost of a heart somewhere in the pages that are not dog-eared for remembrance.