I have a feeling that
when i'm old enough
that these single moments
will only be the corners of my brain
that can barely walk anymore,
I'll look back
and miss as dearly
as I missed your arms
in the second month
of that young summer.
that's common among humans,
to miss what they'll never get back.
some of us do it just for the deep,
familiar feeling
of the pit
at the bottoms of our stomachs.
others do it to get words
into the empty spaces
on the papers
in their hands.
