… regarded nostalgia as ambrosia,
and i remember this clearly –
‘what can possibly be sweeter than
the past when you’ve spent years
tasting the saccharine? would your
tongue be able to discern anything
else after years of complacency?’
i spent months chewing on those words.
i came to realize your name was a
morsel of scarred syllables that was
a choking hazard more often than not.
the first time you stole the yellow from
the skies was also the first summer life
taught me about a sense of loss that
wasn’t death; like slow-burning embers
nestled against my heart, every breath
sunsets were pretty much pink after that.
that summer was an anchor point;
the next half-dozen years were
spent rappelling down fruitlessly,
sleepwalking to no purpose.
i've swallowed regrets,
churning them into little wisps of
nostalgia (ironic yes, you stole the
yellows and left me with amaranths
that stain everything).
at minimum, to state
you were an earthquake,
would be a vast
(1) masterful puppeteer with incendiary fingers,
tugging on heart-strings with ease
(2) astray warmth-panhandler
(1) the astray warmth-panhandler, burning
memories for company
(2) an impractical dreamer; life is monochromatic
to the worlds i conjure
it’s almost easier to chalk
this up to karma.
my chest splits from
the seams, and i labour
know this, i'm at fault too. sometimes, i can feel my soul pour ladle-fulls of regret into my body. it aches some nights, and other nights, it feels like every square inch of me is on fire. i don't think, any of this sparked from regret but more of a burning curiosity. my tongue litters what-ifs, all the time and i find myself apologizing way too often while i try to clean it up. sometimes, it comes in ink, already permanent - the damage is done. a whirlpool of laments comes to its crescendo at some point past 3 am. this whole thing feels simulated and by that i mean, it feels like a runaway recursive call - if you're not at peace, go find peace. and i go searching, but i find nothing, which leads me down to a new avenue and i do not find peace there, so i turn towards the cobblestone streets of downtown and find no peace there, so i turn to X, and find no peace there. maybe one day, i will find peace, and this was all just a poorly-optimized solution. maybe one day
I feel like we have a bunch of poems in a single piece. It's like a painting, you do not know where to look, which stroke to admire, which part is your favorite and where does it end. Even with your closing phrase you kept a string of hope for continuity. As though you still have a lot to say, you are not through with pouring your heart out. You have reflected a raw emotional situation without coating it. I was moved with your authenticity and clearance in expressing the different stages that the character have went through. There is realization, awakening, nostalgia, pain, maturity! And a shy justification for the 2nd character. There is so much to pull out from this piece of art.