Author: Ash Ochoa Poetry

I am nostalgic for that day, 
even though it never existed. 

In reality we were never there. 
We never walked down that street under fluorescent lights. We never sat surrounded by bushes on that wrought iron bench. 
Your hands never felt mine, our bodies never touched, and our eyes never did meet. 

That day... 
Those moments... 
All those memories are fictitious. 

Yet somehow, someway, 
I still remain able to miss it.