I’m amazed at how one moment it’s just a sense of foreboding, the next a tangible reality. The smell of rain and the slow hum of car engines passing by remind me of my childhood and you. I often revisit that place now because to vivisect one’s nostalgia one must learn to look at the whole anatomy of memory.
It always feels like an aftermath where the debris is still scattered. Your memories would assault me during silence — during the gaps of ordinary living: between sips of coffee and
pencil strokes. They jolt me sometimes. But most of the time your silhouette just glides smoothly over my vision. There are times I think I saw you in this train station or in this quaint coffee shop you used to frequent.
The emptiness you left is found in the most mundane of things: unused post-it notes, leftover beers, torn book pages, broken crayons, and cigarette burns. It surrounds me like the evening fog of this city: cold and unforgiving. There is no refuge from it.