Nostalgia

Pouring milk teeth onto a tea cup silence, rasping over ceramic furroughs - a harvest of unborn cries - she shudders into the hollow of a throat she can’t escape. She’s already shrouded, tapestries and bed-sheets and fences and liquid walls, all white. Bridal white, white as snow, cold to the touch. She dreams softly, unassuming, folded into her wrinkle of universe, and dabs her weeping wrists with every perfume she owns, hoping to reclaim her mind with the memory-laden scents of what was. But it all smells the same to her now, like steel corridors and hospital-stillness, and she can’t hide the decay even though every mirror in the house is turned inside out and left alone to reflect the wall. She’s nothing now: a final breath a kiss no one remembers, a candle with a millimeter wick and no matches. She’s imprisoned in one strand of mercury hair, torn and bleeding around her finger, and set free in that instant where vanilla tears swell with his image on her face. She held him for so long, but she’s on her knees begging for more. Inspiration: Pearl Jam's Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town and "Lucid, Nostalgic Perfumes of a Deceased Love Permeate his senses." -Conor Jordan