Nostalgia is the boundary line
Of a fictitious country.
The only resident: a tiny cottage near a body of water, bordering a farm of plenty.
A stone’s throw from the sea — far enough that the walk presents a reward, close enough that when the salt and sun has sapped your strength, your body is soon to sprawl out on the tiles of the verandah.
Only your body.
Your soul is still in the tide, waves spread across every grain of sand with the rhythmic reassurances of every ebb and flow:
I have returned,
I will never leave you,
I missed you, my darling.
A long and languid spray of sentiment, framed with long strokes of sunset, a reflection of the quiet whispers…
A green flash that makes you doubt it was ever there.
Aspiring Adult 