white noise and white walls. soft sheets that feel fresh from the wash and the scent of lavender lingering in the air. a tiny, clean apartment.

that’s what i wake up to every morning.

but sometimes i can still hear that faint jazz — you know, from those old vinyls you liked to collect. it’d be playing in the background, buttermilk pancakes wafting in subtly.

and i’d sit up, slide off the bed, slowly pad into the kitchen where you are. wrap my arms around your stomach, press my cheek against your shoulder. smile into your back as i breathe in deeply, loving how you smelled like sandalwood and pine.

it’s a normal day, a calm day. completely mundane. that’s what i used to think when i woke up to you.

and now that you’re gone, i’m only met with a breath of fresh air. that rich creamy buttermilk is gone, your warm sandalwood washed clean from the sheets. just notes of lavender in the air, a view of the city’s muted morning scape in front of me.

like morning dew on leaves, i’m waking to another day without you.

~ e.h.

my other articles.