Moving On

I’ve never been a smoker, but it reminds me of his fingers when they touched my face, the way my hair absorbed the ambient nicotine of Brooklyn rooftops and stayed with me for days. It’s a physical conduit to the things I no longer have, but it reminds me that they were real.

You have to pick those pieces up eventually, because the longer you leave them on the ground, the more time they have to disintegrate, and soon, they’ll stop looking they way they used to. You have to glue yourself together again, because if you don’t, soon you won’t recognize who you are anymore.