It’s an aroma.
The scent permeats every centimetre of the bedroom. Moving through the front door into the meager space I can taste the smell of your soap, the heady fragrance of your perfume that runs it course through my room like blood through an artery. Every thought and hope and wish and dream I can conjure is utterly oblierated in the utter oblivion of your utterly intoxicating remnants.
I lie slowly on the bed, the purple blankets acquiescing and shifting to fit the position of my body. It’s moving from the shape you and I made it into, once again becoming flat, featureless and fake. This is not how it is meant to behave, not the manner in which it should present itself. It should have our imprints together, like a gargantuan, double-headed snow angel on top of the covers.
I move to the pillow. The piercing scent of your skin lies there still, an afterimage of the original that once lay there. All there is now is the memory of that visage staring into mine, eyes wide with wonder and thoughts of the future while the balm of your pigment is imprinted on my sleeping position.
I breathe in, and you’re all I inhale. You are my oxygen, as you are now and as you were before you drove off ten minutes ago.
You are the air that I breathe.