dreaming with a broken heart

"Was she really here?"

She left this smell. Something floral, probably from her lotion. It clung to the pillows. That smell that used to be annoying. That he used to hassle her about. Now he hung tightly to the pillows. He found himself searching the couch, the closet, the bathroom, hoping that a trace of the smell still existed.

But he always found solace in the pillows. He would lay down in the bed. On his side. He would curl up next to one of the pillows, close his eyes, and see her. Curled up on the bed with a magazine. Putting on make-up in the mirror. Changing her clothes seven times before picking an outfit. And then changing again.

And he would open his eyes sometimes fully expecting to see her right where he had imagined. Her, in her long-legged, flashy smile glory. But she would be gone. And all that was left was the lingering smell on her pillow.

"Is she standing in my room?"