Sometimes, I can still smell her—as though my very skin were steeped in the incense of her, awaiting only the occasional trigger to be released. Sunshine, falling on grass. Damp earth. Glistening sweat along the backbone. The must of old books. Her shampoo. Other things.

Usually, I just shrug and move on, trying to ignore it. But sometimes, in the quiet still of the night, I immerse myself and remember—what it felt like to wake up smelling her, how joyous that scent after even a short separation, the nuances it took with her moods. I remember all our goodness.  And then I sleep, comforted.

Even after several months, the smell of the one I loved remains. It's on my favourite sweatshirt. It's on my baseball cap. It's on everything I ever wore around her and even when I thought about her. It's not like anything else in this world; I never noticed it when it made it's mark and it never seems to go away.

I love to remember those times, but sometimes it's too much. I have to put it back in my closet while the aroma tranquilly fills the room. It's as much its own presence as she was. All I ever loved and ever felt can only be summed up without words. Without images. Without sounds. Without feeling. But, of course, only with the sweet scent of love.

She could be days away from me, but with my eyes closed she's still right beside me here.