prose & poetry by chia

little things

Sometimes I still think of you. Things simply remind me of you, in the most absurd of ways possible. I recognize you in the stack of books I have on my bedside table, behind the curtain in one of the apartments just across the highway, outside my window when I look down on the city streets; you’re there and I see you because you seem to be everywhere I’m surrounded by. These objects remain immobile and really, does that make any difference? Even then, you were barely there, your presence just as immobile. It aches me to think that this city has your fingerprints all over it and it's a few minutes before 4 and there’s no way for me to reach you.