Nostalgia is cold freezing my skin and hair.

I am brittle at the hand of others.

The face I show, a shell.

I try to nurse my bruises.

My presence merely a cocoon

Where I sit in graveled light,

Seconds brushing my open wounds.

The bristles of time at first are coarse.

They pull the skin, already torn.

As my nostalgia slowly melts,

The bristles become wet, gliding over my thawing body.

Tugging at the slowly closing wounds, I grimace.

Light slowly changing to ochre, I begin turn in my cocoon.

I cannot yet see through the silk strands around me.

I do not want to see just yet, for it'll mean letting go of you.

The videos I made in my head.

The pictures I took of us, in my head.

The story I wrote around what was, for everything I wished us to be.

I am in love.

My heart has stopped for this.

That moment which cannot come.

It hangs in the front me, and I chase it.

Every word you once said. Touch. Set glance on my fragile eyes.

It pulls me forward and down.

Back down to my residing sadness, where my heart sits in blood left cold.

-

Thick, heavy mist.

It sits in my eyes, as my mind sits in what was.

The residue.

That tantilising residue.

Formed from puddles of reflections,

- evaporated in your heated decision.

I am no longer allowed you, but I still lay myself bare.

I sit and bath in waning hopes.

They started as buildings.

Thousands of treasures encased in a concrete shell, to protect.

The blood running through copper, capillaries,

That are now slowly tarnishing,

From the thick, heavy mist.

I use my feet to feel in the sand.

Grains mean nothing until I find it,

Whatever it is I am looking for.

If I look at the sky too long,

I cannot then see when I cast my fractured eyes,

Between my toes.

The sky tells of the past,

Yet shows no decay of time,

No hard build up of pity, hatred, mortality,

We look to the sky for answers,

But it blinds us from what we have,

In the sand, beneath our feet,

When we look back down.

Even if the grains hold something,

We cannot determine it's shape,

For looking at the skies stories,

Will always blur and burn what we see,

When we cast out eyes back to what might be lying beneath our toes.

Funeralities.

Skeletons.

Chipping paint is beautiful.