november. somehow, you’re never given the credit for the smell of rain, the fallen leaves, and the cinnamon coffee lattes. you should be.

one month. one hundred words a day; her words. as a thank you for how beautiful you are.

let’s call this little project the smell of rain. for now. for only excuse the fact that it’s my favourite. ever.

that day, she woke up to a cold room; a cold empty room. with a bottle of wine and an ashtray – bursting with what once were the cigarettes he liked -, as the only evidence that it wasn’t always so cold in this house.

it all felt like a dream. one that, no matter how hard you try, can’t be remembered. she was there, sat on a train and looking through the window.

and as the hours turned into seconds, it happened. she saw.

she saw how pointless her attempt at remembering something that can only be felt was.

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