There are ghosts behind every desk I see,
The pale ghosts of us and what used to be,
Slowly fading, they still hearken back to a time,
A time of unrestrained joy, of no reason or rhyme.

The ghosts in the corridors and ghosts in the halls,
The flickering of pale silhouettes on the walls,
The ghost of a laughter that I now long to hear,
But no giggling sound comes vibrating to my ear.

I see the ghosts lounging in every familiar seat,
Under the tree and in the places we used to eat,
They walk with me in the roads we used to stroll,
And suddenly, my name, one of them would softly call.

And the sudden cold touch of every passing ghost,
Brings a downpour of feelings that I thought I had lost,
They kept churning faintly and were never laid to rest,
Snuffed somewhere in some dark corners in my chest.

Only faint remnants left of the emotions I used to feel,
I rummage the streets for the echoes that are still,
As I'm drenched in memoirs under this phantom rain,
I perceive nothing as it was, only ghosts remain.