nostalgia stroke

The things I make into habits

I’ve followed the season

of narrow flames and sea salt to where I am now.

I hide the soot under my tongue

and pray to taste 


somebody soon. You look

so nice that I could take you

home. My home is sometimes full of

strangers looking out the windows

and saying nothing at all. My home is 

hard candy, half furniture and eggshells – everything the fire

left behind. 


I did not think of the ocean when

I kissed you, but maybe I should have.