It’s a pool, you know,

nostalgia, the past,

or whatever the hell

you want to call that

feeling that crawls into

the recess of the mind,

welcomed with a parade

of looking-backs and laurel

wreaths for polished gods

covered in dust. There

they sit, head bent like

Narcissus, gazing into

a water diverging two

worlds, two seas, two

minds housed in the same

sanctity of self; they weep

like Alice, quiet and clean.

Every now and then, one

 bends too far and slips

down into the warm waters,

Submerged in what has

happened, that cannot be

again, but can smother

and stifle; a viscous ambrosia.

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