Nostalgia
Do you still remember the cold gust in your face, violently pressing its way down your throat? Back then, when we used to spend nights outside around the lights and on the chilly shores, back when the crowd used to be together. Lola. Hal. Queen. You, me. Sweet Tooth and Sables. Do you still remember?
Like when we missed the bus and walked up Queensway in search of someplace warm. Everything was silent and empty, except for an internet café where a stocky Indian was closing, and the sickly lit Subway with some guy behind the counter stacking boxes. We stood still for a moment and stared, but then another howling wind blew us away.
I hugged myself, gait like a stork, and kept making a fuss about being cold until you gave me your jacket, you silly thing, and pranced down the streets in a t-shirt in a London autumn night. You said you weren't cold, you stupid thing. You insisted on it.
The haunting dark of Kensington Gardens silently brooded before us when we approached it, menacing, contemplating, stretching its dusty tentacles to swipe us off our feet. It got Queen first; they struck him and engaged him deeply with climbing the gates. He used to be so artful with climbing, winding up on top of something before he had even noticed himself starting.
Or Victoria Embankment. Was it there? The raw, harsh air tugging at my senses. You didn't need to breathe, though, when Sables was drunk, when the alcopops had him and Hal discuss their latest break-up, and they cursed and shook their fists at the world and laughed and toppled over; and I swear to God Hal would've just fallen into the river if Lola hadn't caught a hold of him, and she tugged him all the way along the shore and yelled at him with her piercing screams until the wounds were fresh and open again and a bit sore. She used to burn so much back then, with her terribly tame haircut and her terribly distorted face. must
I bet you remember it all You. You could not possibly forget.
But it's not like you could tell.
I miss you still.
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