Delight, from now on, will be impossible.
Damn my heart — for embellishing old things.
Damnit, I don’t crave the future,
I crave what I once had.
I can’t help but comparing everything to the old,
the true things, the really great things.
They make everything new bland and hopeless,
they make change untrustworthy, unbearable.
Damn my heart, the bitter part,
the part that lingers, clings, can’t forget.
Damn time, it’s aging intoxication,
dissolving innocence, youth.
I can’t help but stay latched to this perfect portrait,
whether painted by a deliberate hand,
or in a friendly haze.
And, to be honest, I don’t want to stop holding it.
I don’t want to store it, shuffle it under a coffee table,
forget it.
I won’t.
I refuse to.
