CXXIX

His smell still lingers, for what feels like an eternity, in the room after he has left it. Skin-smell, and hair-smell, and sleep-smell. A sweet fragrance; the sweetest. I pray for it not to dissipate, but the ordinary inevitably takes it's hold, and I can't stop myself from filling up the spaces where he once was. A flash and a dance of splendour and then a long, arduous awaiting. In ardour. In expectation. My own skin can't keep the smell of where he caressed it; can't bottle it up to hold onto. So I wait. And the promise of return tingles every fibre of my being. Will he come again? And when? And how soon? Not for my skin to know. In ardour. In expectation. It awaits.

[Images: Jennifer Stenglein]