On the windowsill of my memories,
The print of your fingers will remain.
And your touch, once wholly mine,
Will haunt me on cold lonely nights.
And now dark long dusty corridors
Of my memories,
Will have you seated on a wicker chair.
And its night still and I am touching your feet.
My fingers not daring to go further.
And it was cold then, and you pulled away
(this girl had once broken my heart, and i had pined for days and had written this poemlet. the corridor and the chair still remain but i dare not look that way for fear it will hurt my heart)