nostalgia is dripping from the hole in your roof onto you clean cotton pyjamas.
it was 2am and the stars were lumbering while you walked barefoot across your garden. glass kissed your skin and roses licked away the splattered grape juice,
you stayed laying in stinging nettles until the sun said good morning and sighed when you didn't reply,
you miss his lips. when he would heal each sting with a touch to your skin. by now you're exhausted and the pain is no longer foreign.
you tried to hide your swollen eyes.
a little girl tugs at her mother's sleeve
'mama, why is that pretty girl crying?'
you pull each strand of damp hair from you head,
'he loved me,
he loved me not.'
LOVER.
you spat the word from raspberry lips.
your pyjamas are soaked.
and you realise you can't tell nostalgia to go away, just like you did with the sun,
you beg on butterscotch knees but you know you're wasting your time,
because nostalgia will continue to flood as long as there is still a hole in your soul for it to drip through.
