Gardenia

You remember the fragrance, vivid even in a photograph—yet how do you describe it? You can almost smell it at the tip of your nose, but words fail. Some things cannot be shared.

Like the tears that rush out after a yawn—so easily shed, yet they can never carry the weight of an eye socket dampened by sorrow.

But you remember—the signal light used to be green.
Like… like—
The sky used to be gray.
The walls used to be concrete and plaster.
The water used to be boiled.
Winter used to be warmer.
Like so many other things that used to be different.