Observed by anyone
who doesn’t share it,
nostalgia’s like an aging
lifeguard on the beach,
spray-can-tan, past his
prime, past the season,
past all reason bent on
bending time back to when
he was that grand youthful
man who ran things.
Easy to dismiss when
you don’t care; harder
when you catch yourself
intransigently kissing
bits of your own past.
Beware what lasts, what
won’t stop lasting – or,
perhaps, prepare yourself
to be in love with it
until you die. Any moral
here would be a lie.
.
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