Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory,
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
There are roses blooming here, somewhere. I haven’t found them, but I can smell them every time I step outside of my house. Not surprisingly for the area, they’re antique roses, and they smell soft, and sweet. They smell like J.
It no longer feels like yesterday… it still feels like last week.