Sometimes when I think about what could have been
My supernova chest burns white hot
Through my lungs into my back,
A tiny taste of oblivion
I wonder if anyone else can see when it washes over me
Almost bowls me over with imagined nostalgia
And although I know it’s coming
I find myself surprised.
Expectation that never turns into preparation
That particular and peculiar searing pain, wrapped in the most acute joy, and yet the paper falls away before I can touch the seam
And I think
When I’m ancient
This is what I want to remember my life having been
Instead of what it was