Nostalgia sells you sugar to coat your rotting time with; to sweeten the swallow at the fall of the sky and at the closing of the week when you have No Where to go and No One to keep
you company when you arrive.
Nostalgia whispers to you and tells you to forget those tears that hugged your cheeks because
they’re dry now. And you haven’t spoken to that person in a while so let’s give them a call. Let’s invite them over. Let’s repeat that night when we all felt so alive and the wine in our eyes made us blind to the creeping night.
Nostalgia sends people to you who will turn you inside out trying to fit you to their ego.
And you will thank them for the trouble.
And… it is always in the chill of the night when you will feel this thirst in your throat for the buzz of time gone by.
It will never be from the 9 to 5 when the harshness of day can peal back Nostalgia’s plump rosy-cheeks and let her skeletal husk collapse in a heap on your office floor.
When Nostalgia is naked – and she is never naked – she is ugly and withered.
So, she clothes herself in boas and floppy hats and long gowns and heels as high as towers with her neck hanging in flowers.
Nostalgia slinks into your bed, with the dignity of the dark – and also the deception of the dark – and she prods and pokes at you like the bored child she is and you entertain her like the slaving mother you are.
You let your eyes slip across old photos of nights you can’t remember with people who only ever claimed to be your friends. But that’s how you liked it, wasn’t it? Blurred and blissful and dazed and deceiving. Enough sweet pink rosé dancing through your blood and playing with your senses to not have to be so aware of
To go back, to repeat, to indulge and overeat on that grape vine high with those stickers who have fallen dry and not even tried
to re-stick or struggle for tape or lick the spines. But their tongues are cracked and crumbling for me now. And so is mine.