And After

Not here, not still. Believing after a record number of good days that it had all left me, that I'd never feel it again, there it was. In the necklace dangling from the display next to me, in the girl standing in line, in the smokey army jacket of a man walking by, in the traffic lines painted on the street, in the water boiling on the stove, in the moments before sleep and upon waking. Would I always start and end my days this way? And wondering why me and not you, as if I knew what yours were like anymore.