(the problem with) nostalgia

i don’t really know the blood
that flows in his veins
(though we happen to share
the same last name).
and i can’t imagine
his life was ever simple
(despite his constant
claims) as one by one
those who were closest
took their leave
(without fail)
from his home.

some selves don’t have it easy
while others seem to make
a mess of it all, yet
remembering back across those years
(like thumbing through stacks
of slightly out-of-focus polaroids
recovered from a shoe-box
forgotten on the hall closet’s
upper shelf and confronted
with dusty, frozen smiles
divorced from any useful
context) i can’t help
wondering what’s next
for him with a memory
long since faded
and pretending it’s alright
as his world daily shrinks
to someone else’s problem
when there’s nothing
left to fix.