I miss my old home.
I miss the earthy, dark wet grass that made my sneakers squeak
the fresh flesh scraped off of the red-yellow pumpkins
nestled in the Massachusetts clean, fresh air.

I miss them
I miss my blood and loves and colleagues and enemies
the sweet teacher’s warm smile and the apple on her desk.
One so ripe and rare, one as pure as home.

I miss when
I miss the yearly fair, the popcorn and salty fries.
The leaves crunching loudly as the kids all scream
“tag!” I miss, I miss the “tag!”

I miss the
slimy green smoke escaping the workplace
the nonsensical nit-picky nit-pick bickering
the screams of sorrow from my family and the tears of my friends and
my broken heart.

Wait.
No I don’t.