it isn't a place

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, August 11, 2017 Under: Writing



Wisps of clouds streaking the blue I gaze upon. Sun’s reflection on the water.
It’s yellow diamond.
Sail boats skim by in many directions and gulls whine. Swallows chatter while liquid laps at rocks, docks and shore.
A dog sets a ball at my feet. I throw it. He is happy. I smile.
Children laugh in the distance.
There are scents; some are salt, smoke, dirt, air and food. People.

Yet I am removed from it all, even as I spy couples talking and holding hands.

A trip through a residential neighborhood shows me houses, some cozy, loved, special, unique.
Life.
And I am jealous. It’s not material.
I have what can only be described as nostalgia, alongside my seeming pleasure at the scenes. It’s not for a place.
It’s for a feeling. A person.

It’ll be worse in the first blush of fall. That sense of wanting to nest. Cook, decorate, movie watch.
Laugh.
Snuggle.
Kiss.
So much nostalgia for a feeling I’ve never quite gotten from anyone else, any other time. Never had all to myself. To know what others seem to know, have known, like a secret I’m on the edge of.

A smell that is yours alone. That touch of flesh so unique to you in what it does to me. A voice that never ceases to affect me.

Those eyes, a soul.

I am nostalgic. For you.
You are Home. 



In : Writing 


Tags: poem  writing 
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it isn't a place

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, August 11, 2017 Under: Writing



Wisps of clouds streaking the blue I gaze upon. Sun’s reflection on the water.
It’s yellow diamond.
Sail boats skim by in many directions and gulls whine. Swallows chatter while liquid laps at rocks, docks and shore.
A dog sets a ball at my feet. I throw it. He is happy. I smile.
Children laugh in the distance.
There are scents; some are salt, smoke, dirt, air and food. People.

Yet I am removed from it all, even as I spy couples talking and holding hands.

A trip through a residential neighborhood shows me houses, some cozy, loved, special, unique.
Life.
And I am jealous. It’s not material.
I have what can only be described as nostalgia, alongside my seeming pleasure at the scenes. It’s not for a place.
It’s for a feeling. A person.

It’ll be worse in the first blush of fall. That sense of wanting to nest. Cook, decorate, movie watch.
Laugh.
Snuggle.
Kiss.
So much nostalgia for a feeling I’ve never quite gotten from anyone else, any other time. Never had all to myself. To know what others seem to know, have known, like a secret I’m on the edge of.

A smell that is yours alone. That touch of flesh so unique to you in what it does to me. A voice that never ceases to affect me.

Those eyes, a soul.

I am nostalgic. For you.
You are Home. 



In : Writing 


Tags: poem  writing 
blog comments powered by Disqus

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