Nostalgia is fire:
a flickering flame resting somewhere lightly on my collar,
like the lipstick of a woman that once told me she loved me.
The kind that is soft and wet
and so so red.
It is a reminder of things done with no regard for anyone but us.
It is a reminder of night skies,
blue clouds hidden somewhere amongst the lack of color;
an enveloping darkness that is tender and warm
with just the slightest hint of rainwater.
She sits beside me, her red dress only slightly as stunning as her mouth,
blue nails not quite as perfect and flawless as her bluish eyes.
Her hand is also a hug.
She sets it on my knee cap.
And then the crooked space inside my arm.
And I am held afloat.
Not dissimilar to a spacecraft,
or two hawks grooming one another.
She is purple:
Layers of red and blue stacked along the tops of one another.
She is purple grapes ripened and smashed
siphoned into a bottle
and placed to my lips.
She is a soft place to land.
She is a soft place to kiss.
She is a soft place to touch.
She is every sense wrapped up neatly in a box;
every sense wrapped neatly in purple.
She is, in every sense,
All that is all of me:
Nostalgia.
Rainwater.
Purple fire.
She is a cradle for all that is all of me.