CXCIII.

When the air outside feels the way it does today.
A smooth seventy-eight degrees or so.
When you put your hand out the window
And you feel the wind as it flows through your fingers.
It's more than that though.
The air holds oxygen, my breath,
But it also holds my memories,
As I stretch out my fingers,
I can see moments of my life,
Memories encapsulated in the weather,
In my sense of touch, in feeling.
These things never leave me.