I’m running out … when will it be enough?

The days of warm cookies just out of the oven in winter and chasing fireflies in twilight summer seem lost.
The first view of the city’s skyline in morning was enough to cover early heartache.
The Van Gogh I secretly touched in the museum- those raised paints and ridges, FUCK!- they were enough for a whole semester of college.
Staring at clouds and feeling soft grass beneath my feet with my daughter… she’s too busy now.
Staring at the crackling fire sharing stories with my son… he’s off on other adventures now.
Memories of flesh taken quickly in the old shed were enough to get through almost a decade.
Visions of candles on medieval cathedrals, clear waters off the Mediterranean, rocky plains of Iceland all were enough for a short time.

But, I’m running out…
I want to savor each spice on my pizza instead of blindly devouring.
I want to wiggle my toes in sand and feel smoothed by warm winds.
I want to feel cold winter winds on my cheek, warm embraces at night.
I want to hear mysterious moans over moors.
I want to walk in more dark forests, exploring every nook.
I want to abandon fear of words hurting any more.
I want to know it’s not too late for me.