Joan feels remorse for having hated her toes most of her life. She inherited them from her grandmother, who had hated them too. Her grandmother had cried at the swimming pool on Joan's 11th birthday ... [+]
I drink from yesterday
and taste the tangible tang of nostalgia,
that golden age feeling.
With this touch of Midas,
memories become
lustrous idols,
graven images of an
impossibly perfect past.
Yearning tugs me backward,
severs the future,
and sells its spare parts for
expectations.
I breathe in the knife-like light
and press my calves, aching
from the glorious agony
of being alive.
Relapsing,
I long for a future
that reflects the past.
My compensation is the icy
rain that clears my eyes,
preserving my memories in
towering sheets of frozen nectar.
So sweet, so bittersweet.
and taste the tangible tang of nostalgia,
that golden age feeling.
With this touch of Midas,
memories become
lustrous idols,
graven images of an
impossibly perfect past.
Yearning tugs me backward,
severs the future,
and sells its spare parts for
expectations.
I breathe in the knife-like light
and press my calves, aching
from the glorious agony
of being alive.
Relapsing,
I long for a future
that reflects the past.
My compensation is the icy
rain that clears my eyes,
preserving my memories in
towering sheets of frozen nectar.
So sweet, so bittersweet.