I can smell gardenias when I close my eyes. If I keep them shut and focus I can almost touch the petals with my fingertips.
Do you remember when I got you the little white gardenia and told you it reminded me of you? You laughed that melodious beautiful laugh of yours and blushed. You said I was such a hopeless romantic. And hopeless, I was.
I loved you so.
I remember when we parted that day. You touched my hand with your delicate fingers and let them slide. Oh how soft they felt. As you stood up and walked away in the summer breeze, I watched you glow as if you were made of sunshine and moon powder.
My God, I loved you so.
I laid back to finish my cigarette before I left to work. There it was; a forgotten gesture, my little white gardenia. I smiled genuinely thinking, it’s typical you.
But I loved you anyway.
As I pulled over to pick you up from work, you came in smelling so beautifully. No one but you can still smell like freshness and flowers after an office day. You kissed me swiftly on the cheek, a kiss that lingered while you told me about your load of work.
Even when you’re frustrated, I still loved you.
You suddenly fell quiet and took a deep breath. “What is that scent? It’s invigorating!” I smiled at you and quietly replied “Gardenia”. And we fell into silence all the way home.
I still loved you so.
Then one day, I came back home. Your coat was over you luggage while you were fidgeting on the stairs, cigarette in hand. You tilted your head up and took a last puff. Without a word, without a sigh, you stood up and walked away leaving a withered gardenia behind you.
I still love you so.