The Ache Of Intrusive Nostalgia

when I die

don’t look for me in a sunset

because I’ve always hated the beach

rather, look for me in the first bite of a lox bagel

(on an everything bagel, extra tomatoes)

and the distorted psychedelic snares of a new indie punk album

maybe in the pleasant snap of leaves as you step on them

on your November walk through Central Park

and the cold tears you may have spilt as you stepped on those leaves

perhaps in the bridge of your favorite song

not just one that reminds you of me

but one that you love more than any other song

without me in mind

maybe even in the playful crash of a snowball

on the side of any peaceful mountain

and the smell of warm kitchen sink cookies

or brown butter sage pasta

remember me in the tiles of your stationary disco ball

as you pick it up to move it

and the light from your window reflects onto it for a brief moment

illuminating the space that was once mine with my radiant, but depleting energy

cherish these moments, regardless of if they remind you of me

because when I die, I do not expect to be remembered

for I am not the selfish little mind I once was

but a finally aware consciousness

so cynical that I turn down any warmth

even though I’m freezing to my last breath

my last wish is to provide you

with the tiniest droplet of joy

for you, and for anyone

but especially not those who had loved me

at any point, even if just for a second

because I will be there 

but why would I want anyone to experience the pain of remembering me

wishing you could hug me one last time, even though I hated hugs

wishing you could listen to me speak, even though I only spoke lies

wishing you could see the joy on my face when I was given a gift, even though I rarely allowed it to seep through my eyes

I would never wish you , or even my worst enemy, to remember me

because the ache of intrusive nostalgia

is worse than forgetting what you were about to say

I promise I will be there for you

waiting to be noticed

even after my awaited release

there is no map for sunsets

only moments of fragmented memories and correlations

of my post-romanticized existence