Nostalgia.
You’re dangerous.
You rifle through my memory as though it were an open book.
You’re a song.
A scent.
A moment in time.
A room in a house, a spot on the beach, a path in the woods, and a taste on my tongue.
You’re the hot sun on my skin.
You’re the perfect thunderstorm raining down hard on my rooftop.
You sneak up on me. I love that you do that.
You bring a smile, a tear, and even the fluttering butterflies in the center of my belly.
You bring me back to where I cannot go again by any other means than your haunt.
But it’s reckless; holding onto you, Nostalgia.
You’re dangerous.
You rifle through my memory as though it were an open book.
You’re a song.
A scent.
A moment in time.
A room in a house, a spot on the beach, a path in the woods, and a taste on my tongue.
You’re the hot sun on my skin.
You’re the perfect thunderstorm raining down hard on my rooftop.
You sneak up on me. I love that you do that.
You bring a smile, a tear, and even the fluttering butterflies in the center of my belly.
You bring me back to where I cannot go again by any other means than your haunt.
But it’s reckless; holding onto you, Nostalgia.
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