Nostalgia

from the blossoming buds
to the falling autumn leaves,
peace weaves a tale,
that change quickly thieves.
Familiar shores quickly washed away.
losing grip on what was,
what we wished would stay.

yet, amid the turmoil of changes shifting tide,
nostalgia calms the current, causing memories to abide
in the air after fresh rainfall, pure and free
in the taste of hot chocolate and sounds of half-remembered melodies.
in shadows of oak trees and brightness of dandelion meadows.
in contagious laughter for reasons no one knows.
the scent of old books and their tattered pages,
worn-out teddy bears that lasted the ages.
blowing soap bubbles, following ant line to hive.
building sandcastles, chasing butterflies.
in polaroid pictures with decaying frames,
fleeting moments yet permanent maims.
in the soft echoes of a lover's tender sigh
when shades of pink and purple paint the night sky.
when people leave and we wonder why.
nostalgia lingers never saying goodbye.

weaving through years like golden thread,
remaining in our thoughts like monsters under the bed.
a flame and it's flicker remains always bright
testament to moments that fill the darkest night.
the twinkle of firelight casting warmth deep.
whispers of secrets the heart will always keep
however the sparks that once flew begin to vary
along with the naive belief in santa claus and the tooth fairy.
the shimmer in our eyes, the silence as we grieve.
the christmases and birthdays we wished would never leave.
the way things were before stress, anxiety and heartache,
rolled around co-exist with bows on presents and candles on cake
the brevity of our favourite moments may seem like a crime
but certain moments transcend the confines of time

nostalgia creeps up warm, but it lies.
and flows out in wet glistening pearls from your eyes.
a feeling we seek in busy crowds,
in grassy fields and distant clouds,
in city lights and passing cars,
on winding roads and wishing stars.
a longing for something long gone,
that we continue to dwell on.

nostalgia is what we are.
we are collections of the stories we've read.
of night skies we've admired
of smiles we've given to strangers
of tears we've lost on our pillows
we are mixtures of cosmic stardust and earth
descendants of no mads and sailors
we are the flowers we've received
the plants we've watered
the movies we've watched
the songs we've listened to
mosaics of the people we love
we simply remember what is with us, always

There is a man in my closet
He comes out at night
Crawls over to my bed
Turns out every light

There is a man in my closet
He caresses my skin
Holds me gently
And the warmth seeps in

There is a man in my closet
He reaches into my throat
Fiddles around for hours
Just to pull out the day I was born

He howls with my mother
Sways in her tears
Weeps with my father
And it tells me it wasn't real

He rips it to shreds
Lets me watch the day fall apart
Says I made it all up
Because I can't stand the dark

The man in my closet
Doesn't like to imagine
A world without me
But wonders what would happen

If I didn't dream
Of smiling on a swing set
Or have the memory
Of hiding in my closet

Where I dreamt up the man
Who let me paint with words
Watched as I stepped out
And boldly touched the world

A time where I was pink
And every day was golden
When my hands would touch the ground
And somebody would still want to hold them

When I could stand atop a hill
And want to climb higher
The man would reach into his pocket
And pull out a ladder

But lately he retreats further
To a corner in my closet
With all the shame and guilt
He knows it's haunted

By painful apologies
Unnecessary remnants
Ones he wishes I would burn
So we could stop reminiscing

Again he reaches into my throat
Pulls out another day
One where I was lonely
One where I wish I had said

Please don't leave me
Please stay the way you are
Pink and golden
He'll catch you from afar

Now that dear man
Is only trying to keep me golden
Amidst all the clothes in my closet
For me, he'll fold them