A Recipe for Nostalgia
No Substitutions
- Preheat the evening to dusk, when the light turns everything soft enough to forgive.
- Start with one smell you can't explain—strawberry fields rushing past as she pressed against your back, her arms around you a sign that you make her feel safe.
- Set your heart to high heat—to that night the security guard found you, his knuckles on glass like shouts in a cathedral, interrupting a sacred moment of worship.
- Bake with her simple joy until the air remembers how she pulled you onto that dance floor, her hips already fluent in a language your feet were still stuttering.
- At exactly half-past back when, press play on the song that made her throw her head back laughing when you made up your own words.
- Let the first chord open the trapdoor under your ribs.
- Find the old hoodie she borrowed and hold it like a saint's garment (Over-handling may cause her perfume to fade).
- If it still fits, that's how you know nostalgia is lying; if it doesn't, that's how you know it's working.
- Add the longing in slowly—enough to swell every memory of her groaning at your puns, but not so much it leaks into regret.
- Mix in the three words she finally said for the first time ever.
- Scatter Polaroids on the counter, shuffle hands until every card shows her mid-laugh at something terrible you said.
- Fold-in the way her body twinged in anticipation when you’d gently touch it.
- Beat the urge to call her.
- Decorate with her last name—the one she planned to leave behind for you.
- Prepare for the ache in your temples; remember, this is a side effect, not a symptom.
- Garnish with the voicemail she left on your birthday, that you saved to listen to when you wanted to think of her.
- Serve in porcelain chipped by other lives.
- Nostalgia is best when shared, but may also be consumed shamelessly, in the blue glow of the fridge at 2 am.
- Store leftovers in your chest cavity.
- Reheat as necessary.
About the Creator
SUEDE the poet
English Teacher by Day. Poet by Scarlight. Tattooed Storyteller. Trying to make beauty out of bruises and meaning out of madness. I write at the intersection of faith, psychology, philosophy, and the human condition.
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Foot Bindings
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The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
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