Middle.

She was compassed, once

aimless and undefined,

culled with a dash

of gratitude

best viewed that spring.

Don't read in disdain

it'll simmer

that broken bone;

of how often

us yearned the moon

stirring anxious rum.

It provoked

uneasy whims

trimming an impression clean;

sunglassing yesterday

a pocket full of leaves.

In natter, precipitating,

forgiving your

sipping concerns;

now as inaudible

as a song in Autumn

penciled to our tune,

to a tune of ice cubes

smacking enraged glass;

each sentence stammering

each question unasked.