Nostalgia is a comfortable mattress.

Roll onto one corner and you'll smell
Every verse that struck you
From old songs that
You hummed so tirelessly to.

Tuck yourself in to a blanket
Of traditions now long gone,
Of patterns in each other's skin
You knew oh so well.

Hold onto edges of that heavenly pillow.
A fondness nobody thought would die.
A contentment that used to help you sleep.
Now is the very nightmare,
Every bed bug who gave you the rash.

That gave you the reason to get up,
Pound the call of now.
The ascending ring.
Quaking the side table.

This poem requires more of the now to be finished.