A place of nostalgia.

With a breath,
of the pine,
the humidity, the sun, the nostalgia--
I have loved you for so long.

All of these years--
when I lay in the snow,
after the grass,
after the bed of flowers,
the billows of leaves--
there was always a picture of you,
you and I.

Time flies and with it--
this transcendence--
image to reality.

Then I'm laying in your sheets.
An inbreath of your skin
and warmth.

Brisk time ripped them out from under us.
Now I don't lay,
but sit,
or pose.
Contorted, awkward, misplaced.
That same pine now stuck to my face.