so hungry my knees tremble
and it isn’t for food, for liquor, for romance…
I’m starving for the lost parts, the times of being pampered and spoiled,
the rubbing-my-back-until-I-fall-asleep and the reminders to eat and rest.
I am suffused with nostalgia
for the pleasures of routine,
the absolute wallowing boredom of secure sameness.
They seem the most intensely beautiful things, now
those dull days, running into one another.
The good times always seem so superior in retrospect,
so shiny faced, pictures of old holidays
where everyone is smiling, frozen in a single moment of joy.
It was never the good old days.
There were certainly excellent moments
but any meal replicated can’t match the memory of itself
because it’s not just the food, not just the liquor…
its the romance we perceived in it
the magic of that minute
the alchemy of you, and them, and then, and there.
Did I say it was boring? Maybe it was.
Maybe I think boring is romantic
at this stage of my life.
Someone else can rub my back.
Will it be the same?
But pray heaven, it will still be an excellent moment
I’ll remember as good times.