Nostalgia

I do not know you. I barely do.

I don't know your favorite dish but I know how you drink your beer. I have no idea if you use the word apparently correctly but that's okay if you don't. I know you sleep late at night but I have no idea what keeps you up. I don't know the kind of music you like to listen to when you're up late at night. I don't know if you like to read or if you've written a piece or two. I know what you do but I don't know if you love doing it.

How can it happen though?

I become reminiscent each time I see you. Even if I do not have a lot to remember. You are like a familiar place I go home to after a long day. Like seeing my favorite sweatshirt back in college in a room full of new things. Similar to the feeling of singing to an old, classic song you think you've forgotten but each beat drops naturally and you swing along.

You are my nostalgia. You and the little things that I know of you are distinct snippets of time just sitting in my mind — safeguarded, siezed. Replayed again and again. Wistful and wishful.

I do not know you. I barely do. But would you mind if I mind that I don't?