Dust

I’m desperate for the dust that once lined my heaving lungs. I can not differentiate between what is worse, my ravaged heart, distant, beating for no one or the comforts of home and familiarity amidst impoverished streets. I miss the scents, and playing in tattered clothing. I miss the old man telling his stories that had more wisdom and character than any modern day television set I sit in front of now. My memories still keep the long sleeved shirts we transformed into soccer balls and the sunlight which picked up each and every particle in the warm summer glow. The golden days were ours. We didn’t have much but we certainly had everything.

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