I’m not ruined in nostalgia,
just as the heart is a cave
with twinkling lights.


I see how you gravitate to the familiar,
to the chachkis I never really gave you.

For three years, you waited: dripping, calcifying.
I wanted us to be a wisp of normal.
Now, I dissect your bile.

And the nostalgia?

It still sits alone,
it still hides from me.