I Miss You

I Miss You... Like high school tennis practice after classes at the midpoint of May; so at the peak of blurry vision owing foggy glasses owing a humid leak (of which I won’t speak lest my knees weakly wobble, side to side, as they did when Coach Notis would tell us what failed to kill us - when nobody died or tripped over lines of his murderous suicide drill - was done incorrectly - which in turn led me to question this passion of mine, stern and directly, returned to me answered configured like this: Why risk your manhood and furrier balls for something where love all means nothing at all?).