Nostalgia

"I might not be the right one, this might not be the right time"-Daft Punk

My students asked me what "nostalgia" means,
and before I thought of those dead in my life,
I thought of you.

How we met under lo-fi music, lo-fi lighting, lo-fi flirting,
lo-fi literature, lo-fi voices. And you wanted my number?

How we spent nights just touch. Just touching on your woman's bed.
Clothes within reach. Poetry to spare. A flick of your lamp and off.

Immersed in those cotton crimson curves and quilts, I reclined into
your breasts and hands in my hair and we recited "HOWL" after each other.

I recall your smile, drawstring lips sliding over a 22yearold's braces.
And your laugh, a soprano simmering of elation. Kind of reserved ecstasy?

And you photographed me best, whether that means knew or loved or admired or
none of these things and only forgot.

But I still feel most myself when I see me from you.

I was the last man before you married him, wasn't I? You enjoyed me,
but I was a mild aperitif to the punchdrunk yum of him. Nice smile, too.

I asked you what "nostalgia" meant and before you thought of our
adolescent touch or glamrock debates or "coney island state of mind,"

you thought of him. I also remember how you bolded your emphases.
Such a brilliant writer. Such a brilliant everything...and I stopped in your mind?