That smell; that smell of dewey grass and rusted swings. The hours spent on my roof, dreaming, feeling the winds' embrace, giving the stars absurd names and stories. My mum's moth-eaten wardrobe. And lipsticks from the 80s. The way my dad stares into space when he listens to Bach; Chopin. The way my sister's benevolent soul radiates through her skin. Coffees on corner cafes. Endless cigarettes. Meeting someone for the first time and noticing the littlest things, like, their widows peak or chewed down nails, the way they long to be heard, or unseen. Bodies. Yours on mine. Mine on yours. Our naked skin touching and new and exciting and the hairs on your arms are tickling my chest. The sound of a piano key amongst a sea of silence. The sound of tears hitting the floor. And all the wonders of the universe that live both within me and yet so far away that I am both everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Things I will miss