Every time I walk to that diner’s old door

Every time I walk to that diner’s old door,

nostalgia drips thick, like grease on the floor.

I order the burger, the one that feels right,

the sizzle of grilling, a symphonic bite.

It’s not just the taste; it’s memories bound,

wrapped in the laughter, the comfort I found.

The weight of the past lingers here on my plate,

as flavors awaken the love and the fate.

No other place captures that sauce or that flair,

each mouthful a moment, a memory laid bare.

I sink in the booth, let the world drift away,

this greasy nostalgia is where I must stay.