yestalgia

its blurry now, that afternoon
which we swore was unforgettable.
i cannot recall the song we wrote.
what did we laugh about in the midst
of chaotic nothings.the mustiness
makes me think of you.but how did
you become this air.not everything
is moored to certainties now.

on nights like these, we tried to
relive things we used to love.that
we cannot bear anymore.we stayed up
watching reruns of all that we were
with an abandon that deserts us
in the slanting gaze of the sun.
when we see it all too clearly
for what it is.or perhaps stand
blinded by what it is not.

you make me listen to birds,
their songs that wake you up
each morning,and throw you
into this life that you own, but
which owns you more than you'd
like, and that free spirit of ours
that lived out of suitcases and
dreamt of beach houses, breathes,
in flashes, of concurrent
memories still bound to hope.

This must be the future where
we time travel in an endless loop
of meeting our other selves over
and over in attempts to find how
our edges chipped, and who held
the chisel and the mallet.
(in every version, howsoever
we played it, it was always us.)