Wall Ghosts

A crayon, broken, under the sill,

I found it there, so small and still.

The last small thing, to pull and clear,

from this empty space, so cold and sheer.

The walls, they tell a different tale,

pale squares remaining, like a veil.

Where pictures hung, for all those years,

now only ghosts, dissolving fears.

Each lighter patch, a memory's stain,

of what was here, and won't again.

No paint can hide, no wash can mend,

the ending story, of this friend.