The greeting cards. Flowers that I've dried and preserved between the pages of diary. Your aroma as scars on my skin and your caress in my humility.
I have preserved your smile too. On a shabby sketch on the wall of my room. There's a photo hung around to poke me in the night. Then lot of bits and pieces in the cupboard.
Sometimes, altogether they simmer. Go top, bottom and sideways and take a toll at what's normal and mundane. I get elevated or go down in an abyss. But I don't complain.
My days are long stretched fights with you in my head. They start with you and end with you. I don't like it. But I'm addicted. And I write about it daily. My diary is a rehab centre I guess. At least that's what I believe.