A cup of warm coffee in my hands
I took a small sip
As I gazed at the night sky before me
Sitting by the window
The world looks so peaceful
Night is quiet as usual
And suddenly, a thought came to me
I put my cup down
And rushed towards my room
I opened my closet
And there it was
Your old sweater
Hanging there
Still looking new as ever
But never worn in years
My heart broke in half
At the sight of it
I put it on quickly
And it still smelled like you
A sweet fragment of light lavender
And a hint scent of vanilla
Then I walked back to the window
Took my sitting position again
At last, I let the tears fall down
My darling, I miss you so much.
Especially on the days
When I’d wear your sweater.
About the Creator
Isabella Renteria
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks." - Plutarch
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Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
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