The Pieces That Stay

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.

When sitting on the campus grass, peering at the building that contains the classroom that contains the desks, specifically the two where we both sat and talked about our truths before the professor’s lecture began, a piece of you stays.

When wearing that necklace, images of autumn and pumpkin spice and new beginnings manifest and a piece of you stays.

When smelling a scent that’s reminiscent of warm vanilla sugar, flashbacks to walks on the boardwalk, overlooking the high tide, arise and a piece of you stays.

When referencing one of your philosophical theories during a conversation with someone else, a piece of you stays.

When breathing deeply, attempting to relax the parasympathetic nervous system, your calm energy surfaces, your voice tells me to keep on breathing and a piece of you stays.

When we’re apart, when we can no longer reach each other in the ways we have before, a piece of you stays.

When life changes, when life rolls on, a piece of you stays.