Nostalgia

I wish I could make
Your mystic splendor (sprayed in the air
Like some floral perfume), to go away.
My usual unyielding self
Does not have the strength.
You have the temerity to stop by--
Only to torture me.
And when you leave, you do so, either
By sweeping me off my feet
To walk, or run.
I hate it when you come uninvited,
Because you make me cry.

Come and see me, sometime.
Yes, this is an invitation.