Those days when it's warm in the sun and cold in the shade, when a familiar situation moves you in unexpected ways, when all it takes is a shadow on the wall cast by a tree formed by the Sun, a shampoo brand, or a memory resurfacing to make you tear up.
Pain is never bittersweet, change or nostalgia or tragedy even is never beautiful. You'd be kidding yourself if you said so. Life is not literature . But it was, it was. It used to be.
Started writing this poem the second day I moved here, which would now be a little over 2 months ago. Didn't complete it, kept waiting to write the perfect third stanza. Then I lost the notebook I had written it in. I should know this by now a piece of writing once abandoned is seldom completed again. Here goes:
This is the room I grew up in,
It no longer feels like home.
Without the collective laughter there once was,
These walls here are having a hard time standing on their own.
These are the friends I grew up with,
We don't all share the same interests.
In the pizza circle we are,
I am just a fraction of the crust.
See? A third stanza is needed.