It's late, and the rain hasn't decided what it wants to be yet. I'm wearing your sweater — the one I said I'd give back and never did. It still smells like you. Or like the memory of you. I've stopped trying to tell the difference.
The letters are in the drawer by the bed. I don't read them anymore. I just like knowing they're there — proof that once, someone loved me in complete sentences.
People think love ends when people leave. But love doesn't check the address. It's still here — in the sleeves I pull over my hands, in the paper I've kept too long, in the part of my heart that never got the message.
I made this candle for the memories you wear. Worn cotton and warm amber, vanilla soft as an old letter, rain on the window. For everyone who keeps loving — gently, without asking for anything back.
