Nostalgia is better than the real thing.

It’s all filters, angles and good lighting.

It’s Sepia tinted memories,

lingering pain from an old wound

you thought had long been closed and forgotten.

There is no retrieving what was,

the things we lost in the fire.

So where do we go from here?

What’s our next step when everything we had

is ash and blackened?

When I’m choking on your name like smoke in my lungs

and my ribs are shaking under the weight of all these fallen walls?

I’ve got to stop making homes out of people’s souls,

stop hoarding their shaky bones

next to my own

and calling it comfort.

Stop falling for ghosts,

still haunting in someone else’s empty rooms

when I’m my own void that needs creeping through.

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