Anemoia is defined as “nostalgia for a time you’ve never known.”
I’m going to paste the text below the collage in case it’s too small to read; I feel like it might be but I’m having a hard time making it bigger.
Remember— the long late summer evenings
we never spent beside the canals,
bicycles not leaned against lampposts still unlit,
witbiers with their drizzles of orange never drunk?
No. We never sent postcards back home,
bright with foreign stamps; never stacked
up Polaroids with garish magnets from Munich or Prague,
never ran up phone bills with calls lit with tears.
I was never there. I gave the best years of my life
to a different sorrow, monochrome and beyond redemption.
April in London, Christmas in Sydney— it happened somewhere,
for someone. Not for us: tender, forgetful, young too late.