Nostalgia

Words are poor messengers for emotions,
for what I am when I sit on the marble
of my bedroom window in late June,
as rain needles through cool air,
makes dark spots on my trousers;
I am in a lost childhood dream,
the last ten years never happened
but this is just a really long déjà vu,
I simply forgot not to grow up,
to keep building castles in games
and none outside;
I sip tea from a mug with painted roses,
and have just returned four hours late
from a school-library filled with fairy-tales
and new-smelling encyclopedias
with DNA helixes and blue-white comets
and my mother chides my forgetfulness,
How do I lose track of time, she asks,
I fall on the freshly-washed bedsheets
of a bed I no longer fit in and ask myself
How do I lose track of time?