nostalgia wants us sickly

Ain’t Even

Snowflakes fall into your ears.
They are just heavier than air – just.
Crystal forms melt on warm lithic bodies.
Nostalgia wants us sickly.
Nothing ever was real but once,
and you blinked.

Done tried to relive over and over every
failed attempt to make tracks.
Laid prone in the back of the Dodge Ram,
a futon lifted on empties – just a soft place,
quit your job and just
listened to the highway out back.
Sounding off the high tension
wires running over bombshelter suburbia.
Felt the cold walls of the dead-empty
house, your memories of warmth
locked up inside.

Was it ever real, even once?
Headlights of someone come
to hold you back,
bathe you in affection.
In dreams, light comes from your eyes.
It feels thick ¬– this humid air turning
to ice crystals and falling,
whitening every surface like a gleaming eraser,
a blanket of snow.
Even your fears have a tenderness.