The Pieces That Stay

30 Mar

Thought Catalog

When standing inside an air-conditioned subway car on the way to West 4th Street, observing his smile, a piece of you stays.

When strolling through Union Square during the onset of spring, where the air is sweet and innocent, like your essence, a piece of you stays.

When driving through your old neighborhood, passing the sidewalks our footprints deliberately marked on lazy summer evenings, visions of strawberry shortcake popsicles and insistent mosquitoes and clear, navy blue skies trigger certain memories and a piece of you stays.

When the Dispatch tune about a general comes on, it serves as a time portal to the past and a piece of you stays.

When a guitar player at the coffee shop strums the chords to that song you sent through our ether connection that June night, the June night that featured heavy words coated in an inexplicable vulnerability, a piece of you stays.

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