You

I see you in the sunny yellow of the sunflowers, whose picture adorns the cover of my notebook.

I see you in the burnt amber of the tea that I have every evening in my favourite cup, with a handle too big for my fingers.

I see you in the navy blue of my favourite long sleeved top, which my mother keeps telling me to discard, but I can't bring myself to do it.

I smell you in the shampoo that I use against all odds, but only because it makes me feel a little bit closer to you.

I smell you in my chicken sweetcorn soup, which I always take a sip of too eagerly, and get my tongue scalded for the next three days.

I smell you in the ocassional spider lilies that I stumble upon, which would probably make me allergic, but I overdose on the scent without any care in the world.

I hear you in the beats of the same old song I keep listening to, because I know nothing defines our bond stronger than the lyrics that we swayed to.

I hear you in the pitter patter of the rain that pours down on the ground where we first met, and I long to lurk out and catch a glimpse of you, even though I know it's a fleeting illusion.

I hear you in the laugh of a non-coincidental person, and revel in the creaminess of the husky tone, filled with pure mirth, only to snap back to reality and walk away, the sound of pain that pounds through my ears deafening me.

I taste you in the blood that flows down from my lip, as I tried to suppress my anger at you for leaving, by biting my lip until the sharp metallic tang of the crimson liquid confirmed the turn of events.

I taste you in the saltiness of the tears that trace down all the way from my cheek to the corner of my mouth, because the longing was unbearable and I never liked things being out of my control.

I taste you in every bite of the chocolate that I love. The sound of the nuts crunching as I chew them can't be heard over the sound of my breaking heart.

I feel you in the pictures that are stashed away in places where no one else can see, and I crawl to those when I feel weak.

I feel you in the paintings that I made, except none of them ever came out well, because of the absence of your compliments that I longed to seek.

I feel you in my blurred memories as I close my eyes, and try as hard as I might, I can never find the moment that your hand wave farewell to me when it was supposed to be caressing my cheek.




And then I felt you again.

Saw you engraved in the words that were uncountable.
Smelled you along the lines that were weaved together.
Heard you in the rustle of the pages that were made to please the ears.
Tasted you as the thrill threatened to swallow me whole.
Felt you when I stroked your spine and held you close to my chest.

Comfort is a luxury that's rare to afford, isn't it?