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.
Writer, Learner, Jane of All Trades