Apr 2012
When I opened my eyes,
I thought I'd be somewhere else.
The air had decieved me.
This was not the air we breathed.
The sunlight had tricked me.
This was not the light that lit our world.
The grass had conned me.
This was not the grass that had tickled our skin,
the ground that we lay upon,
whose molecules shifted so loudly when I turned my head to look at you,
breathing so rhythmically with your eyes still closed.
You were still in that place.
You still are.
Keep your eyes closed,
because when I opened mine,
yours were absent evermore.
I thought I'd be somewhere else.
The air had decieved me.
This was not the air we breathed.
The sunlight had tricked me.
This was not the light that lit our world.
The grass had conned me.
This was not the grass that had tickled our skin,
the ground that we lay upon,
whose molecules shifted so loudly when I turned my head to look at you,
breathing so rhythmically with your eyes still closed.
You were still in that place.
You still are.
Keep your eyes closed,
because when I opened mine,
yours were absent evermore.
I am not a person who likes the feeling of nostalgia because it brings back too many good memories. Memories of times that I'll never be able to recreate. Innocence that I'll never be able to get back. It kills me inside to think of where I was and who I was with this time last year, and that I'll never be able to tell myself about the mistakes I shouldn't have made, and maybe have been able to prolong losing what was important to me. What is still important in my memories. Nostalgia for me is the worst at the turning of the seasons, where even just the temperature of the air will bring back a painfully beautiful memory.
