Theories About Nostalgia

I taste the magic when it begins to seep,
heady, sweet; the soft slip into darkness.
You are so beautiful-I don't know what it is,
but your wizened trees and your sweet
open mouthed caves, their inky dark insides
pulsating hot and clean,
purge me of the grit in my skin.
Persimmon bite, your cotton mouth kiss sticks with me
when I stray, the trees flitting past
a bus window never quite the same
without the hills of your gentle body.
You always grow back when you are cut away.

The rough scratch of bark against skin,
feeling the voice of the earth in the grass.
Virginia sky, syrupy clouds dripping into the sea.
I want your moons inside of me, swelling my stomach
like a balloon blown too far, skin stretched thin.
I want to wane and wax with the heat of your setting sun.
Wrap me up in the salt of the bay, the brush of
Queen Anne's lace, the threat of a poison sting.
Let the wasps make a nest in my body
until my life becomes another.
For so long, you have nurtured me with the magic of
your dusky waters, your whispering trees.
I lay myself to rest at your feet.

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