On Nostalgia and burning sensations of fingertips
that ride the fire of their memories, unsettled
by the smoke of their own oozing fire.
On nostalgia for little curls of dust and sweat
that corner themselves in punishment
away from the merciless face of the sun.
On nostalgia for all things unforgotten,
unsmeared, untainted, whole, yet barred to touch.
On nostalgia for storms that take nothing away
yet rearrange the course of the wind they hold on their back;
for thunder that mistakes its voice and runs in fear
behind a round waist, to hide its pebbles of washed rain, underneath.
On nostalgia for eyes marked, underlined by faults of shade;
for the sun-kissed armor of flesh, against an Eve's pretense of fear.
On nostalgia for he who rightly claims his, the gaps between the breaths;
the vacuum behind the disintegration of the ancient dream.
On nostalgia for the god who rarely remembers he is god,
but chuckles, nonetheless, in disbelief.
Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.