Nostalgia is written in
the paragraphs of a sunset.
Between lemonade colored memories
is the red hot sand of the beach.
Clouds float by,
just like good old times.

I see her when I walk across the street,
staring at her
in stranger's faces,
never quiet ever
having her same
honey colored eyes.

I watch him as I digress,
a new memory being formed in the moment,
laughter between food,
a lifetime of memories
is eaten in one
bite.

His lips don't taste the same as before,
no,
this time around,
it's sweeter.

This time around I do not need to savor every morsel
this time around,
I get to eat him whole.

I treasure those eyes,
like marbles in my pocket,
I hold them deep in the crevice
of my mind's hand.

Night slips on the shadow's horizon,
light no longer a blanket,
and for a moment,
the cold feels inviting.
loneliness a sin or the sinner?

God knows.

All I know,
is that nostalgia
is written
in the
paragraphs
of
a
sunset,




or if you're a poet, the stanza's of night.