Nostalgia

Today, I opened 

An old folder,

Containing old things.

There were letters from you,

Where you called 

Me your world.

There were articles 

About people who are dead.

Birthday cards from friends,

Who live somewhere, 

Where memory can not travel.

Stories I wrote at eighteen.

I read them, amazed mostly,

At how much I am the same.

Sketches scribbled ravenously,

As if my hand would devour 

Papers and colours if 

Not transferred immediately,

And glued on sheets.

Photos of me, posing there,

Near a pool, a car, tall wires 

Of grass, only my eyes showing,

Never wanting to be understood.

Even then. Just seen.

Read, believed, accepted.

Even now. Just seen.

Read, believed, accepted.

Poems copied on note pads.

Heroes I found I must save 

Somewhere, so that I would 

Always remember

What quiet greatness meant.

Some Baudelaire, some Aurobindo,

Some Atwood, even a random poem,

I found in the paper written by Anonymous.

Called The Rose and the Thorn.

Ending with, 'For someone, somewhere,

Would you, would you?'  

I recall falling in love,

With Anonymous. Wanting to tell him,

If I ever met him, I would. I would.

Today, Anonymous would be 60,

Sitting alone in a one room kitchen,

Sipping his tea, and reminiscing  

Of his rose, or maybe a grandfather,

Going for morning walks with Bunty.

I touched each item with my hands, 

Traced old thoughts with my fingers,

Smelt old smells, held them near.

And then I sat with a fond gaze,

Enveloping them around me. 

Like a warm blanket.

Sleeping in a tent of memories,

Till my body ate them up.

Till I woke up feeling satiated, 

So wonderfully complete.