I miss this—
The tranquil rustle of the leaves,
The midday sun at full throttle,
An uncomfortable heat surrounding the
Foul dissent of my loose-cannon brain,
And a stinging void of your memory
Left in haphazard pieces in my soul—
Yes, I miss it all, just
Short of the waste-bin
After having bounced off the rim,
Projected back in flight
Only to fall, victim to gravity.