NOSTALGIA

You open the window inside of me,

fingers like fists, clasps like lips

fumbling on zippers. Clouds part.

Glass shatters and I become a hole.

"But the view is still beautiful,"

you say, cutting moons into my skin.

My blood curdles into a night sky.

Without realising that I am more than

a perfect field and a bright blue sky,

I paint a child's sun in the corner of my page.