Nostalgia is a dirty liar.
It insists things were better than they seemed,
and it even fools my PHD candidate brain.
But hearts don’t quite work that way.
They cannot understand deceit,
at least not this kind anyway.

Mistakes wore us down like erasers
and arguments soon began.
Nostalgia cannot block it out again.
That day we drew designs upon each other’s skin--meant nothing.
The love faded anyway,
like our matching sharpie tattoos.

You etched your name in my heart with permanent marker
but only let me scratch graphite lines.
Sweethearts, young and innocent
until proven guilty in a court of law.
Yet the verdict rests upon opinion,
does assault count for a broken heart?

I walk the halls we used to stroll,
fingers interlocked with ink.
But now my insides leak like watercolors,
leaving reminders in the stairways.
I wonder:
What can I buy to push memories away?