I am nostalgic –
the ghost of who I
used to be
calls out from within
my memories –
tormenting me
with a sudden uncertainty
that has risen, unexpectantly
to challenge
the decisions I made
and the path
I chose to venture
once, as was that ghost then
so sure, so sure –
but now, maybe
not so anymore!
Hard, it would seem,
to ignore
the imagination
and creation
of maybe-memories
which maybe-might-be
pestering my sanity
with a life I could’ve lived.
There’s a certain shade
of teenage love
unlike any other
that time has to offer.
A passing flush
parades across the chest;
a formidable force
under the breast.
Heaving; heavy with
the weight of the First,
a confident uncertainty
of its own making
Sinking or Floating or Breaking
it becomes made.
A breathless vision;
here, well-hidden
in a canvas marred with age –
where vibrancy inevitably
has dried up like old paint
and succumbed slowly, under
silent fade.
Picture the seasoned lover
until the Last,
now warms with a pallet
of a predictable ensemble;
where a once-familiar hue
emerges as new.
Ah, the First –
a memory described
head-first deep-dive
into complete saturation,
summoned only in the tense
where once conquered all makings
now, washed from existence.
Lover
your whispered words
of a time before,
still carry
feather-light fingertips
across the skin
warm-spreading
and a tightening
breath, caught fast
in my chest –
I remember.