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Nostalgia

Love, Nostalgia

The Ennui of Forgotten Love. 

We exist in undertones and silence, never black or white but a shade below grey. You never took me anywhere you couldn’t fuck me, but I came anyway (the double entendre that defines us, the only thing we didn’t blur)
I get blackout drunk and in my last moments of lucidity, my tongue is numb and all it tastes is your name. So I’ll call you at 3am to stutter my ultimatums but all you make out is “I wish you talked about me the way you talk about my pussy.”
Turn the tables and it’s you at my house at 10pm. You walk in and leave sobriety out there. How your world stops when I leave, and other dreams you sell.
I was yours for so long and now I don’t know how to be anything else. But that’s not true, I tell myself this so you remain relevant. Was it love if I don’t remember your birthday when you’re gone? You had a scar as big as my index finger, I can’t remember what thigh it was on. I can remember the first time my lips touched a cigarette but not when they touched your lips.
All you are now, is a fictitious person I write about from time to time. You are what I say you are.

Image from Tumblr

Nostalgia

March 17th

“Once, I wrote a poem about you.
I write it smaller and smaller every day.

One of us is vanishing into the distance.”
-Daphne Gottlieb
I am known for my
inconsistency and capriciousness. I leave men at altars and send poetry as an
apology. It is what they want after all. I had to learn this the hard way. The
desire to kiss me is only an urge to be closer to poetry. I say
“only” because proximity is not enough for poetry to thrive. They
launch an inquiry in the depths of my throat in an effort to find my soul. And
then it begins “am I the one?” “Am I your muse” “Am I
the best you’ve ever had” my response is sought after, not for my praise
but for their own. They will go back to the herd and say they invoked such
feelings.
My words are a
trophy. And I am fine with that. The true test of my feelings is giving away
that trophy. But although words may be immortalised in ink, feelings are not
for they do not remain constant. How I felt at 18 isn’t how I feel now:

“You don’t
mean to me what you once did. The version of me that loved a version of you is
gone.”

I say this to
myself whenever I am face to face with you. What I really want to say:

“How do you do
it? How do you make me believe you missed me for 6 months with no calls or
messages to show for it?”

To that you ask the
same question. How do I do it? How do I stay silent for just as long? But am I?
Am I silent?

My lips speak of
you whenever another kisses them. My words carry your syllables, initials and
mark. You are not forgotten. But maybe you should be.

Nostalgia

Ouroboros

I
“Am
I your first?” he asks. Half inquisition, and half expectation.
“Everyone
is a first for me.” I respond.
And
somehow, he gets it. He was the first to understand that no two loves were the
same.

II
“I
don’t spend half my day checking for his last-seen-online stamp.”
Not
anymore at least.
I
get it now: “We are victims of a
romanticised
notion of forever”

III
I
am an oasis of past loves
Strangers
before, strangers after
Even
love is subject to the laws of eternal return

IV
I
know of caution when it comes to love.
What
is new, is caution after.
I
must remain on guard to keep him out of Eden after the fall.


Nostalgia

An Ode To “Us”

“Freeing yourself was
one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another.” – Toni Morrison,
Beloved

There is a darkness that
resides in us all.  From the biggest of
wolves to the meekest of sheep. But we are born from light and so our lives are
mapped out to be a war; a war of light trying to extinguish darkness. So we consciously
try to hide our darkness, we keep the darkest secrets and shun any form of
light which seeks to “make us known” to the world. What is unknown to
us is that subconsciously we are trying to find the light that will forever
hold our darkness at bay. We all know this struggle too well but some know it
better than others. They drown their darkness in more darkness.

                 I am born of this:
               “Let the lesser evil shield
the greater one,” I say to myself day                    after day.

I exist to take on others’
darkness so that they can rid themselves of it. So I write about the unknown
boy that is a maverick. How he never let anyone in but me. And when I was there
I run for safety and left him, heart open on the surgery table. I hope that in
print he will become known, at least to himself. And after me he will know
great love.
                  “How can I selfishly deny
him this?”

I know one Wednesday night at about 10:45 pm I
will throw caution to the wind and send a care free Hello. After all, I need a
Muse.
                  “How can he selfishly deny
me this?”

                   One evil, the greater one shall prevail.

But this time it cannot be
me. I will let his heart rest easy in the hands he chose. Not mine, still fresh
from digging my claws out of him. Nora, he is happy, let this be. Love your
fate even if it is bitter, therein will you find the light to battle your
darkness.