The Smell of His Cologne

The sheets were still a little warm,

the air still held his fleeting form.

And on my dress, a single note —

in sand, he wrote.

The smell of his cologne remains,

it dances in my window panes.

He’s gone, but not completely gone —

he lives on.

The smell of his cologne remains,

it lingers soft through walls and rain.

He’s gone, but not completely gone —

just moved into the dawn.