Citrus

I sit down, teardrop on its way to the floor; I put my head against the wall, and remember.

The warmth of the room, the laughter reverberating early in the morning.

Walking towards me, waving.

His hands, tired from writing and overachieving. He always reached for the stars; but on his hands, the indelible stain of how he let me go.

Her laugh, probably loud enough to hear from the Moon, greets me with a frequency I long to hear now.

These memories, this nostalgia, they are sour like citrus.

And they burn when squeezed into my eyes.

The burn - a home like no other.

I ache and ache and ache.

If life does not kill me, nostalgia will. The pain of never forgetting, the calm of always remembering.

Touches of a life - touches that come and go, sting and bite like no other. Yet, it remains my refuge.

I should have begged more.