She said:
“It smells like something we didn’t finish.”

I didn’t leave much behind.
Except the scent.
And that was enough
to make her cry.

She never liked strong scents.
But this one?
She let it stay on her skin
even after I left.

She picked up my shirt,
pressed it to her face,
and held her breath
like it would bring me back.

It wasn’t the perfume.
It was what it knew.
Where it had been.
Who it used to touch.