I died the very same day you left,
I run out of air the very moment you dissipate.
Still figuring out how I’ll have you back,
Still lingering on the thought of you, recouped.
Why are the days as earnest and somber as a dying soul?
Is this another push, or the same old pull?
If not, where had my limericks been?
That no matter how hard I kept on forging,
I die with my plume wrecking the papery’s poor soul.