Sometimes all it takes is a song on the radio.
One song and you’re back in his car, the night you drove until the freeway ended.
A blouse you put on as you rush out the door, panicked; steal a quick glance in the mirror as you hear his whisper twirl around you: "You look good," he said. Only loud enough for you to hear.
The taste of crisp ocean air on your tongue, and the way it seems to rinse out your lungs. It reminds you of the night the black December water left you drenched in salt and regret.
Passing by a place where your words made a home from the hours you clocked there.
Or simply by looking into the eyes of another: a look that hasn’t yet rivaled the way he looked at you.
It’s the details. The small, miniscule things that we don’t choose to keep, but still.
But still.
We are left with the remains.
-S
