Revisits of Yesterday

The days are short when your touch awakens the lost memory. I sit here in a very familiar place— the same trees, the same building configurations, all coming together in one brief stroke. With the absence of those who once occupied this space, my focus inverts and draws on one last recall. But the soul is as distant as those who perished from life. My nostalgia reanimates them— dead or alive, they are here, beating with me. I hear their echoes squirming in the latest gossip, eyes gazing at the prettiest sights. We were underripe—sour as green apples. My sweetness abounds and craves your bitterness. I sit in hope that one day I will find the laughter and crude debauchery that brought immediate comfort. I was them, and they were me.