poetry

Nostalgia

Grasp at lockets of

Headless photographs

Pretending it’s the past.

Try to remember the waves,

The salt air,

The seabirds;

 

Hoist up your memories with fishnets,

And gut them so they become something

They’re not.

So they become

A harbour in which we can settle.

 

 

In thought or in fact

Let’s return to black and white

And walk along beaches

Scattered with empty benches,

Empty conversation and

Empty people.

 

Let’s wind up the gramophone

So songs become a curse in our minds.

 

Lovesick?

Homesick?

Seasick?

Doesn’t matter,

We sail on oceans that do not exist.

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