you are the smell of sunflower oil
for frying chips;
my coworker's perfume.

your warmth is winter.
off-white walls,
snow-covered tar,
close together,
the windows open,
the fan oscillating.

"you'll be around later, right?"
you questioned as i crept out of bed,
headed to work.
i nodded,
you grinned,
fell asleep again,
this time alone.

in my memory
you are sitting.
the table in the back,
surrounded by the warmth of our friends,
guacamole in the center.

in my memory
we are near.
the futon,
treading through the snow,
trailing behind you in the hallway.

i am at your doorstep.
pacing the hallway,
heartbeat echoing,
constructing the concrete confidence
to finally just ******* kiss you,
but eventually walking back
to sleep alone.

i carry doomsday on my shoulders
and yet you have the strength
to lift it off.

five months later
and electricity still pulses through my veins
at the notion of someone breathing in my ear.

you are not here.
you are not sitting at the table in the back.
you are not sleeping next to me.

reality is jaded,
yearning that soon
my memories
and actualities
can align.