Museum of flight

I miss my hands being red and numb, trying six ways to squeeze lemons into a bottle on top of a mountain. I miss sitting around a table, feeding leftover wings to dogs, listening to strangers talk about glaciers while sipping coffee that took two hours to make. I miss asking again and again. Where am I? What are we doing here? How did we get here? What is our life? I miss getting into bed at night knowing there's a white mountain at watch outside my window. I miss the music. The one I cannot listen to now because my heart folds upon itself every time I do. I miss the streets and the stones. I miss the human warmth amidst the snow. The red faces, burnt toes, orange hair, the tiniest things. Oh it's just that. I feel my heart now has wings and it doesn't beat any more, it flutters. And it must, must be set free.