“Sun Dried Tomatoes” by Kit Bellovin

I thought I would never see you again.

But I see you every day, in the evenings of early winter, when the sun has left the sky and the dark is soon to follow, I see you in the horizon, in the fading light.

I see you in between barren tree branches and in the kids playing soccer in the field and in the snow on the train tracks that hasn’t melted yet and in the loose change that magically appears in my jacket pocket.

I see you in every car that passes by and in the freckles on my arms and in the freshness of the air when it gets quiet outside in the mornings and everytime I close my eyes

I see you in the stale, ashy smell of cigarettes and in dusty gravel parking lots and in the way the road bends to follow the turns of the river, speeding cars swept up by the current.

I see you in my coffee cups and in the creases of empty cardboard boxes and in flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up and front pockets that button shut.

I see you in the shadows of alleyways and in the graffiti splattered on the overpass and in the dust covering my stacks of paperbacks I haven’t read and in the lyrics of songs you told me you didn’t know.

I see you in the rain and in the way I picture summertime and in pale ranch houses with long driveways and the paint chipping off like no one lives there anymore.

I see you in folded paper road maps and in overripe bananas and in little red swiss army knives and big black winter gloves that have a velcro strip to tighten at the wrist.

I see you in collections of rubber stamps and in rusted metal scraps and in old copies of MAD Magazine that no one reads and in the shards of broken glass at the playground that have been there for months.

I see you in stray dogs on the side of freeways and in the low E string of my guitar and in the sting of saltwater under my fingernails and in well-fitting pairs of jeans that hug my hips and smell like bleach.

I see you in my reflection, in the creases in the corners of my eyes and in the texture of the skin on my forehead, oily like the jars of wrinkled tomatoes that used to marinate on a wooden shelf in the kitchen.

And I feel us looking for each other in the blinking traffic lights as dusk settles and as dawn rises and in the middle of the night when I look out the window for too long, hoping to find you.

Kit Bellovin is a student at the University of Michigan. She is studying Computer Science and Environmental Studies.