I'm growing sick with the nostalgia.

It chokes my liver, turns me green

And I find it pleasurable and disgusting

All at once.

It is the prime tragedy,

Because we never really moved on.

My mom seemed like the wise one when she told me to forget,

But then I wondered if she really knew what it felt like,

With the crow's feet pinned around her eyes,

and the sad crease of her mouth.

I wallow here

like the diseased buffalo,

too engorged and too enthralled.

Who knew the past could taste so good?

The flavor of the retrospect?

Amazing, the meaning that was always there;

Growing in between the lichen looks

and the cultivated smiles.


And we all say that we've moved on.

This was actually written a while ago...and I just found it sitting in my documents. So yeah, there you go.