It’s the little things
that make me think of you.
(the smell of stale smoke,
brushing my hair,
the way the boy at the corner stood
as he waited for a bus).
When they come,
as thoughts often do,
I’ll inhale,
try to still my heart,
flush the thoughts away,
Of course it never works,
but I can’t help but try,
and maybe one day
the little things
will be just that:
things.
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