Smelliot Smith

Somehow

It’s always the silliest things

That make you feel the bittersweet emotional proximity

That we call missing somebody.

Two cats, captioned “us;”

The way you’d sing the kid’s part,

And I’d sing the Dad’s

On the cover of Industry Baby,

of all fucking things;

Your fantasy tattoos;

The times I’d beat you so hard at fifa,

You’d cry like a child;

Your insistence on imitating every sound on every metro;

The stick your pulled from your handbag,

Thinking it was a pen.

Your three copies of the bell jar;

Watching you scramble around,

Desperately searching for the phone in your pocket;

Kazakhstan’s bureau of laughter;

How excited you are about Beyoncé’s renaissance;

Your crippling fear of four words,

Haha you’re so;

How you shout “hey!”- Lego city style-

Or whine “stop being meannn” in a pitiful voice

At the slightest insult.

(I am a little mean, though).

It’s like Elliot says,

Everything reminds me of her.

Well, maybe not everything,

And not necessarily even her.

Everything reminds me of everyone.

To my friends,

I know we’ll meet again,

Some sunny day.