when the scent of last night stitches into my clothes.
I breathe, and every past good or bad decision we enacted in moonlight perfumes the room.
His fragrance envelopes me. The aroma cloaks and holds shapes: impressions left on the couch, incense coiling to the ceiling, the mint on his lips, the trace of pine he wore home from work, even the planted whiskey kisses that blossom overnight.
I watch as mornings rise like the steam ascending from my mug and I realize how he holds me the way citrus sticks to your fingertips. Encouraging sweet dreams, I feel him. He holds me, and