Well, it isn’t of you.
I know the smell of you. As if it were a personalized cocktail of pheromones just for my senses to devour. No, the smell on this sweater you gave me isn’t of you, but it smells like us.
It smells of almost.
I wrapped myself and fell asleep in your sweater the second I got home. I remember the anticipation to breathe you in as I rested my tired head onto my mountain of pillows. I inhaled only a ghost of a scent – like a faint whisper, but not quite. It’s not what you smell like, but what you have become to smell like. What you have become to my senses. Something close to you, but not exactly. Something foreign, yet familiar.
In some way, the smell of your sweater has become a stench. It stays hanging on my closet door and somehow the faint smell has become an overpowering odor. One that makes me turn away with my brows furrowed. Is it the smell or is it the memories?
I’ve been hesitant about washing it. Afraid if I throw it into the wash, I’d wash away all that I physically have left of you. Afraid that somehow, washing your sweater is symbolic of washing you out of my life. Afraid that perhaps you giving me your sweater on the last day we met meant something and it would be the death of me if I didn’t hold onto that happy memory a little longer.
After all, what’s another day?
August 2017