These are the failures that constant remind me
of all that was wrong with what's left behind me:
no one to call on a lonesome Friday evening;
no victories won that weren't mine unevenly;
all I recall of the four walls of the residence hall
is spring longing for summer, and summer dreading fall.
Where did the time go? What did I miss?
How did trashy that turn into blissful this?
Which of my seeds of despair and destruction
grew into this mountain I've mined so much luck from?
