Lemon Melancholy

I remember you today.
I remember you well.

I’m in my room, staring
into the pitch black around me.
It’s all so dark,
so empty.

It’s no surprise though.
It’s no surprise at all.

Since you left,
emptiness has become
an ever-present twin to my
regenerating depression.

One day bad,
the next day worse.

I dig to the bottom of the trash bin
that snuggles into the corner
of my room to find a cigarette box-
your cigarette box.

Blue and grey,
just like my skies.

I open the box, and
as I suspected,
the familiar smell of
lemon fills my nostrils.

It takes me back.
It makes me remember.

It makes me remember you,
in your red-headed glory,
laying with me on my
overwashed sheets.

They felt like paper on my skin.
They scraped against my limbs.

You had long finished your
last smoke, and the box
laid on my nightstand,
the odor leaking out into the air.

It smells like heaven.
It smells like you.

It smells of your lotion,
the sour, yet sensational
scent of a freshly squeezed lemon,
ripe and beautiful.

You put on too much.
You needed somewhere to get rid of the rest.

So I gave you a paper towel
and told you to wipe it off.
You cleaned your hands
and balled it up.

You put it in the cigarette box.
You threw it in the trash.

I take another whiff and
feel my body become weaker.
The lemon, the sour smell
paralyzes my thoughts.

I only think of one thing.
I only think of you.

I clutch the box to my chest,
and I feel my heartbeat increase
in a way that you, and only you
can force.

My heart aches.
My heart pains.

I start releasing tears for the
uncountable time that day, and
it’s obvious.
I’ll never let you go.

I remembered you today.
I wish that I hadn’t.