December has passed,
your ghost is now gone;
it no longer lingers
in the hallways of my mind.
You only enter through my doors
from time to time,
but never to say, "Hello"
or "How are you?"
Your visits can only mean
somber seconds, and then
just as soon as you're here,
     you're gone.

Summer has arrived
and almost passed.
Your face has became
a still-frame
picture etched into my brain.
Your actions are now a myth,
a story passed along
and changed accordingly.
You may have been real,
but just as easily,
you may have never happened at all.

Now, there's nothing to show of you,
except words,
     a myth of your love.