is nostalgia the sentimental price we pay
for having left so many parts of ourselves
in moments we can no longer return to?
.
.
.
in lovers’ arms whose names have grown artifact on our tongues
cobwebbed kisses and closed favorite candy shops
in desert homes with for sale signs on the door and front windows
new government locks
keep
the sweet and bitter sides of family
within their walls
snowy winter wonderment
baby eyes soft and round with awe
and rage filled throats and fists
carving escape routes in walls
a cement vault
in your favorite blue basketball shoes
the ones who held undefeated winning streaks
and the missed shots that turned
belly water into screams and gentle tears
in the sacred darkness of bus rides home
the ones with rips
at the toes
pushing your socks
to reveal themselves
peering out for the light
for something beyond
your soiled white laces knotted at three different intersections
like look at all of this holding
.
.
.
or maybe nostalgia is
some type of recovery map
a treasure hunt for the love of your life
and you go through all of these twists and turns
highs and lows
back and forths
out and ins
and you meet all of these people
who come and leave like the breeze
or a storm
or the sunshine
and some who stay
longer
than you
could ever wish for
and some who feel like a dream
or the stillness of the moon
or a prayer you didn’t know you were casting
some who you could have never imagined
and you go through this labyrinth
just to find
yourself
exactly where you entered
where you got lost
but deeply changed
.
.
.
and maybe nostalgia is