They always say the final sense to go is hearing, but touch lasts right 'til the end. Not over the whole body, though; I can't feel Dot's hand in mine, but this fucking diaper itches like blazes. I ... [+]
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.