It’s all nostalgia,
all of it,
longing for what is, and what was, and what will be,
snapshots fuzzy with age,
all the more precious for their fading edges.
I hear you singing and I know you understand;
we’ve never spoken but we’re so much the same,
the way your voice swells out of the past,
dreaming backwards to dark places dripping syrupy sweet with longing,
paddling upstream, drifting down.