Ephemeral Echoes of You

The city always smelled of rain and regret, didn't it? But your apartment… yours smelled like cinnamon. A small rebellion against the grey outside.
I remember tracing the lines on your hands with my fingertips – a secret map I was desperate to memorize before dawn forced me to leave.
You said you were broken, scattered pieces of something beautiful lost in the chaos. Silly man, didn't you know? Broken things are always more interesting. They hold stories, whispers of battles fought and survived.
And maybe… just maybe… I wanted to be the one to carefully gather those shards, to fit them back together with gold lacquer, making something even more exquisite than before.
That was a foolish thought, wasn’t it? A moth fluttering too close to a flame. Still... sometimes, late at night when the city sleeps and only ghosts walk the streets, I wonder if you ever smell cinnamon and think of me.

Editor: Cat-like Muse