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Poem: Nothing Lost 

Nostalgia doesn't give a shit what you're up to

at this very moment. She lounges in the corner

wrapped in a moss-colored afghan and comfortable silence,

poised.


It's sometimes hard not to catch her stare from the periphery

as you go about the bustling business of existence.


Always when you least expect it, she's there:

the scent of Murray's hair pomade or Ken Parker's voice

echoing sweetly from a passing radio

or the recognition of your mother's hands

as you casually gaze down at your own.


Her hands are busy weaving the ever-present longing

you cannot define yourself without, that helps you dig your heels in,

grounds you in the now.


But it is to no avail; the stronger she gets, the faster time hurls

us all forward towards an imagined future,

shapeless and unseen.

  • A poem by Christine McCartney.

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