Sometimes, if you close your eyes, you can smell it. You can smell it. You can smell a business man's greasy pizza fingers, you can smell the strong thick perfume your waitress wears, hips swishing as she walks to put in your order. You can feel it, the hand brushing yours, soft, soft, soft, soft like you always remember it to be. You feel the tremors of the pregnant woman in the both across yours track to the swinging door, the bell ringing violently as it opens. You can taste it, the sorrow in the air, yours mixing with his in the saddest of ways. His sweet breath flicks across your tongue as he breathes, trying to find the words. You can hear it, the way he let's you down so gently, but it's still like he's dropping you on the floor, so fast you can't seem to see your life flash in your eyes. You can hear your heart breaking, it cracks, like an eggshell. It was just a delicate illusion you let go on far too long. And you watch as he leaves, you're stranded on a desert island, as he walks out the door, bell clanging merrily.