The Little Things

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.