explaining nostalgia

No. It isn't the thinness of my recollection.
It's the stale odor of alcohol on my breath
and something delicate-
something pink; the peonies that have since bloomed,
discarding their petals with no memory of us.
I hate them.

I hate that my skin has no integrity.
I've become handmaid to it's betrayal-
tactility the grandest of lies.

My eyes are sorely bound to our passing;
an industry of stone-
a polished reminder of my own insignificance.
Longing assembles.
Blistering like braille on my abdomen;
I am firebrand.

Burning;
and remarkably untouched.