Reminiscing can be sweet yet sickening
like milk that has curdled.
The past returns, its pulse still beating.
We cradle memories, bright but blistering,
pretending their edges never cut or stung.
Enveloping ourselves in their whispering.
We edit the scenes, make grief feel less like reckoning,
mute the conversations where we said something wrong;
Yet the nagging of our crimes continue their soft beckoning.
Time plays tricks, its mercy always flickering,
warming the ache, that thumps in our chests
then proves the warmth was only dithering.
What once felt solid is now splintering.
A ghost of us that swears it still belongs;
haunting the corners of the selves we are now presenting.
So let’s reminisce the love, the loss, the lingering
of memory’s charm: bitter, bright, and long.
Savoring the ache it brings to humanity.