lingering in the space she once occupied here,
I remember remembering it,
the sweetness where she sat each day,
like a long lost flower
smelling sweeter in decay,
A Tuesday scent
a spirit clinging to her space,
hovering over it,
strongest in those places
where she lingered most,
dead flowers having
much too much time to brew.
stirring it all up in me again,
a memory of an odor
I can't quite restore
Just as I can't restore
how soft she felt,
how tender her lips,
her nicotine perfume
that mingled in the air
that said she who she is
and what she was
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