On Nostalgia

Sunshine with a blade in his mouth, we're supposed to assume that's ok somehow, drawing lines across our faces--mustaches, caterpillar scars.

To be told you are a list of disorders, diagnoses, it smacks of predictability, quantifiable somehow. And yet we are always more than the sum of our parts, our squeaky wheels, our oiled joints.

Sunshine splits that chill in me, falls short of raising me up, but with perked ears I know that sound--those leaves, now dust--is too good to be true.

I long to trample in piles, slice them into sections with my legs, fall suddenly only to have the crunch save me, like it always does.