I have become addicted to the smell of you.
What smell is that?
The smell of sweat, soil, cigarettes, yeast and warm rum.
...
It isn't an insult. That smell is like my personal stash of high... And now that you're not around anymore, I've created it for myself.
What?
I walk around in this old forest at the end of the lane, smoke a few and treat myself to a rum every morning sitting nearby this place. That's how I douse myself in the memories of you.
You shouldn't do that.
Oh, who are you now to tell me this? You're just a dead body in this old forest at the end of the lane from 2 weeks ago. I love you though.
...
