Years caked in the ink of some strange vomit perpetuate,
and the ensuing weather of one's weaker self dribbles in through the blackened windows.
But the flickers of this flame ensure some soft familiarity;
silhouettes painted on the walls, embossed in the oak of a faded past.
If these flickers are all that's left, that must suffice.
It's an exercise in futility to expect your dark fingers to intertwine with mine,
but it's an effort I attempt - the shape of you is a solitary comfort.
And the strange vomit is my tribute to you, to an entity long fled this existence.
A memory embedded in my wall.
The light is gone, but your shadow allows me to pretend it never did.