I wrote a poem. A free-verse poem. How unlike me. 

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I see the face: an accurate impression, if pressed to see

unimpressive if precise dots: exact, hollow,

but less

capricious than I remember; a savagely bad attempt

to recollect something temptingly untrue

but I

try not to; recalling ghosts keeps them longer

keeps them lingering, thoughts without voice

I want

and wonder if the haunting whistles,

aggressively invisible, always stay with you,

or not

white sheets coloured rose, the dots will stay

but like all things fade, differently, and when

the white

grey sails away, leaves nothing to observe

if you come across her maybe, say hello

from me

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