When these fields of adolescent wheat still green ape the waving ocean I’d love to ache a little more. It hurts to see such beauty. It tears at the navel wound that proves that long ago there was a cord that did much more than bind. Now it’s tied and (more troubling still) healed. Which means the pain of separation has been pacified. Which means something wildly vital has died. I’d love to ache a little more.