Freehand. I relay their faces over and over in my brain
Those that are young, and whose features
will no doubt change, stay as I last seen
Chubby, pink, flamboyant, lovely

Vomit arises. The cold milk,
my mother would give with our pancakes
Left more of a feeling, than a taste.
A warm, lovely feeling. Like when
You first take notice to spring buds.

I have my memories, and my conections
I have the warmth of a mans chest
though the warmth they exude are not
as I have once lived.
They are, the feeling you get
When the first autumn leave lands near your foot.
It is not the same. Pursuit would be
Fruitless. It will never be the same.