These are not triggers
but poignant
pen points pricking
my nostalgia
by pulling potent
sensory information.

Like little electrodes
they let go and explode.

Strawberry and chocolate

take me back to
a place I don’t want to
revisit,
an old housing complex
that I am no longer missing.

The sound of a piano
let’s me let go
and fall with the flow
of fantastic chords,
back to the floor
by the wooden door
frame
next to my grandma’s
******* piano.

A cold concrete step
or warm summer sweat
lets me get a taste of
things I forgot
but still love
like grandma’s
raisin cinnamon swirl buns.

Memories’ mission
for what is missing
and needs remembering
seeds these things inside of me
to produce a crop
of reminiscence
and I am still recalling
bits and parts of them.