The Smallest Thing

The smallest things remind me of you,

like driving home drunk in a rain storm.

I’m brought back to the night when

I let you drive my car

trying to find some road

that lead to Manhattan.

We spent two hours arguing about the best route,

driving aimlessly on back streets

as you ranted about bridges

and I complained about my bladder.

You finally pulled over in front of a burned down house

somewhere in Harrison.

I pissed on the front steps

while you changed the radio station.

And we ended up at a diner in New Jersey

sometime after that.

The smallest things remind me of you.

I don’t think of California

without hearing your name somewhere in the back room

of my mind.

Every time I think of LA, I want to throw up.

I remember writing countless poems

about your ride on an escalator in Newark Airport,

crying and begging me to come with you;

spending sleepless nights on the phone with you;

spending sleepless nights waiting up for your call;

spending sleepless nights worrying about why you were staying out so late;

spending sleepless nights wondering where we went wrong.

The smallest things remind me of you,

like the feeling I get when I think of you and

remember everything you were and then

that little thing that you’ve become.