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.