They say that when a loved-one leaves us, we soon forget their appearance. The image in your mind dies out quickly. I struggle to remember, but her scent is still on my pillow.
of simple love
She is facing me on the fencing piste, a foil in her hand pressed against the floor to form a bow--Cupid's bow. She lifts her mask and freckles peek between sweat-drenched hair, her coy grin instructing me to slow down, relax, and just be me.
Auburn bangs screen her eyes and lips, casting an exaggerated glum expression. We have been arguing again, but that is not the cause. I need to tell her how she matters and that I love her. But I cannot, given the circumstances. Soon I head for England, to a bloodier piste and sharper swords. But for now, I have the scent on this pillow to remind me.