Pillowtalk

I can still smell your perfume...lilacs and citrus, soft and sharp together. I loved to lay beside you and smell your hair, nuzzle up to it and inhale, breathing in the life that sustained me. Where did it go wrong? Was it the poison?

I'm sorry about that. But you were going to leave me, I know it. I know it! Don't try to tell me otherwise; it was all over you like a cheater's musk. You smelled like a liar that day, cigarettes and bowling alley and whore.

Besides, I didn't give you enough to kill you, it only made you sick. And I took care of you, didn't I? I nursed you back to health, sat by your bed, held your hand, fed you, bathed you, treated you like a queen! But then you had your relapse. And you got worse. And had to go stay at the hospital and I couldn't take care of you anymore and after you went to intensive care I couldn't sit by your side and couldn't talk to you and...and...

They found the poison. But it was too late.

Someone's knocking at the door. It's probably that detective and his bag of questions. He'll ask and ask and scribble on his cheap notepad and I'll have to tell him about your affairs and how you broke them off to come back to me. He'll believe me. He has to.

But first I'll smell your pillow one more time.


M. PotPie