Nostalgia for that foot of beach.
Nostalgia for that minimal and virtually invisible half moon.
Nostalgia for that palm tree.
And each one of its branches.
For its past.
For the people that enjoyed its shade.
For the kisses that were gifted between lovers.
For the glances that searched for one another.
For the eyes that found each other.
Nostalgia for the things I never lived.
For the persons I never became.
For the words that were left off the paper.
And for the dialogue. And for the history. And for their ears.
For that boy that today is me.
For the first time I got sick.
For when I discovered winter.
Apple compote.
Or watching TV from bed.
Nostalgia for desserts with cinnamon.
Longing for travel. And for the return.
Nostalgia for the smell of the inside of a maple wood closet mixed with the fragrance of peach jam.
For naps and playing pretend with an imaginary telephone.
Nostalgia for the places I never visited.
And for those that I never saw again.
For the playground where recess took place.
For my 7th birthday.
For the smell of the plastic cups when I was 7.
For the smell of new shoes.
For that smell. Her smell. The one that so lingered in my scarf.
And in her pillow.
Nostalgia for the raviolis of the truck drivers.
Nostalgia for thinking I was invisible.
For believing I could see through ceilings.
Or move books with a fixed stare.
For dreaming while awake.
Nostalgia for the cities I never visited.
For their sunsets.
For the restaurants with food I never tasted.
Nostalgia for memories I would have never imagined.
For imagining what I would be what I am today.
Nostalgia for feeling that everything is so real.
And that that palm tree is only the past. And nothing more.
