Unfinished but Not Incomplete

by bonnie azoulay in


Old Love,

Where does it go? 

When it's been used up

When you can no longer

Patch up the holes

When you've said your farewells

To the love you's

and the kisses

And all the little things

Like the smell of his car

 

Where does it vanish to?

Does it get scattered

Up in the clouds 

Or does it get stored

Up in ‘The Cloud’

The one technology uses

To save old photos 

With permanent smiles

Where love doesn’t seem

to be an old memory

 

Old love gets shuffled in with old books

Old books that you’ve never finished

Left alone among dusty bookshelves.

 

You eventually find new books

To read

You find new people

to love.

Feeling like you’re cheating on

Old books

and old love

That were never finished.

 

Just because you didn’t get to the last page

Doesn’t mean the book held any less value

Just because your feelings didn’t last forever

Doesn’t mean the love was any less than it was.

It was unfinished but not incomplete.

 

Old love dies when you let it go

When you wake up one morning

And decide,

To stop looking for his smell


What is Love

by bonnie azoulay in


 That one friend that always answers back like a mini Joan Didion. 

In case you needed the accompanying song to get into da feelz

Happy Friday! 


Taste of Nostalgia

by bonnie azoulay in


 

Nostalgia is grandma’s potato salad

The one I used to eat as a kid.

Back then I let the oil drip

                                                 Drip

                                                        drip

Down my chin

Without asking for a napkin

To blot out the mess

Or the calories.

Nostalgia is candid family photos

The ones I’d take with crooked teeth

Back then there was no filter

Valencia was just a dot on the map.

Nostalgia is the Deal Casino

The one I used to frequent as a kid.

Back then I walked around bottomless

My childhood friends and I

Unknowingly mooning the Jersey Shore

and all of its inhabitants.

Giving a f**

Was not yet a feeling

Nor a word

In our limited vocabulary.

Swimmies were life’s only burden

Carried between our shoulders.

Our only boundaries

Were the deep end

To the diving board.

Being a good girl

Rewarded you a lollipop

Or later bed time 

Not a good reputation.

Excited over little things

Gushers and Dunkaroo’s

Oakhurst bus rides

Laughing over made up games

And made up places.

Chronicling a Narnia of childhood.

We were part of something

Free of trepidation

We were part of innocence.