Nostalgia.

Sometimes the rustle of the leaves that scurry by is the only thing that tells me that I'm still alive. The subtle scrapes against the concrete remind me that I still can communicate without saying a word, without a single whisper. Although I cannot wish for a time like then to reoccur, I miss the complexity of my existence - the complexity you used to illuminate - and I miss the philosophical mazes we lost ourselves in for hours.  


I appreciate your beautiful absence - no longer is the air thick with guilt and pain - yet, on days like these, our synergy would have lit up the city. On days like these, your love would have done me good.