The Indexical Trace

Nostalgia is poison, but

It doesn't mean what it did

Maybe that's why they say

You can never go back

A right turn on red

A message left unread

The grey interstices between

Sign, signifier, and signified

The indexical trace

Of the presence of another

Footsteps overhead on a creaky floor

The light on under the door

An errant thread

From a piece of clothing

On a towel of another color

The most comforting sign of home