I want you to remember me this way

I'll taste bitter at first. Dry, making you thirstier than you were before you took a sip of my favorite drink. It will come in waves, for everyone but you. I'm not sure anyone else would know though.

You'll turn the thermostat up, sleeping better when it's warmer. I always made you too hot, sweating through the shirt of yours I'd taken out of the hamper. I liked them better when they smell like you. Soon it'll get uncomfortbale though and you'll turn it down. The sheets will be cold when you stretch out, but the bed won't be. You fell asleep hand in hand with an amber scented memory of the first time we slept together in our bed in our house. No matter the temperature, you sleep in the warmth of every night we fell asleep in our bed in our room - no matter where we physically were. We didn't stay in that house forever.

Marrying you was a promise to give you everything. There aren't many people who have as much to give as I have, as I do, as I did. Marrying you was a promise to give you everything, always, forever.

And so when you cook my favorite recipe alone, it won't taste bitter. You'll remember to use smoked salt instead, always more - not enough - and it will taste familiar enough the sense of home we made together, the sense of taking a pause in life, the sense of devotion will overwhelm you for just a moment.

Your eyes will glass over, but you'll smile and the bed won't be cold that night.