Bottled nostalgia sells like true tears.
Accumulated memories, photoshopped bits:
Are they what I remembered, or via wit
of man and wishful fears
of the days we’ve forgotten, mind cleared
of bygone worries alongside? “It fits
with what I thought happened,” and it
bothered no one, even if the mirror
said otherwise. Or did it looked so good
because today is beautiful, as sunshine raced
with Spring’s Herald outside the window saying
strange words, moon runes, almost, lifting the mood?
Among my strange references and stranger cases:
Was it simply longing, or the reminder of a witch sighting?