The lustrous nostalgia is aggressively renascent. It's happening again, something I can't explain, a feeling of delectation. I sit with anticipation that the reminiscing will end soon, and I can start living. Riptides from happiness, my head is in a circus. What will happen if the sun overstays and I sink into this efflorescence forever? Bittersweet thoughts live in my mind like I could live in those lost happy moments, in the space between here and there. I make orange juice out of the roadworks. I wear the pearl around my neck and the gold ring around my finger, looking through the grommet. I realise who I am, wishing I had made the change. I am a deranged imitation of you, silently becoming me.

I look at the trees careless in the wind. I cross the road without thinking. I make ships out of the black night, and on gloomy days when I am jaded I flow with the rain. I stare at oceans, admiring the tides like I am a painter and the world is my dishabille canvas. I pick the colours I want to see, a denizen of my emotions. I bite down on the kernel of the walnut, and the blood is a worm in my veins. Blue and self-medicated. Wading through tears in love poems. I am another raindrop on the window.

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