Somewhere, Your Thirteen-Year-Old Self is Disappointed

You walk into the elevator at work, running out for a quick smoke between dreary, time-proof meetings, and there’s a scent. You can’t place it right away, but as the metal box dives, you get a vague recollection, of bright sun and freedom and shit, first love?

You hold the door open for someone and they ignore you, and you try to hold on to that memory that had just brushed past your fingertips.

You smoke and try to fit it all together. You get pieces. Choruses of songs, the sound of a window opening, a corner of a smile.

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