A year later

A year after, I’m ironing a scarf, at another city, at another apartment, at another world entirely.
And as I iron and the steam comes up I can smell him.
I can smell him, the way he smelled after a shower at night.
I can see him, goofing around in his underwear.
I can hear him, making voices, making faces, sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth.

Today, after a year I felt very lonely.

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