three weeks

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the sheets still hold onto your scent the way velcro holds onto itself-

indefinitely, until it's ripped away.

i can't bring myself to wash the sheets because if i do, i'm afraid i'll wash away all the comfort the bed brings me.

how lovely it is to be able to roll over and breathe and get hints of you filling my lungs,

your scent meeting the oxygen and coursing through every vessel my body possesses.

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the clean pair of underwear you left behind is holding your place for you.

i washed those, just in case they were dirty, but your smell is is sewn into the waistband.

clean, like laundry soap and sage with a hint of mint and a touch of musk.

you always smell so clean that sometimes i wonder if your father's name was clorox, but i know it's not because there is nothing chemical about you.

you smell like the earth, natural and wholistic. fresh.

you smell so clean that it's no wonder even your voice has the same ability as swiffer and lysol when you speak to me. it clears the cobwebs on the positive emotions and thoughts i haven't used in awhile; breathing you in is like mopping the floor and scrubbing the walls.

the surface of me looks soiled and ugly but the comfort those hints of mint and touch of musk bring make the house my brain inhabits sparkle.

turns out, the house was never ugly. i was just never cleaning it properly.

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the walls have been scrubbed with no sign of buildup starting again and the floor is still sparkling.