My hands clutched on to the black leather jacket you loved to wear so much.
It smelt faintly of mint, of cinnamon, of you.
Where are you?
It's the only constant in my life now. Pondering. Questioning. Brooding.
I see the scattered reminders of you in our room.
The polished glimmering under the lights from your favorite pair of scissors. The different sets of your hair extensions – green, purple, blue. The velvety black silk underwear you wore in bed – you refused to call them panties because you hated the word.
I hear your voice mocking me.
The horrible 1940s actress voice I don't speak in. The way you insult my hair, my makeup, my clothes. The dismissive way you say "whatever".
I feel the absence of your warmth.
The surprisingly soft, sizzling skin of your fingers when they hold my wrist. The sweltering heat of your body next to mine. The steam from your face when I told you I love you.
I crave the umami of you.
The spiciness of your mint-flavored lip gloss. The wetness of your tongue as we challenge each other to a duel. The sweet, metallic flavor from the scraping of your teeth on the surface of my lips.
Now it's all gone. The day you were taken away from me.