The season of nostalgia

There's a sweet sadness to the scent of spring air, infiltrating my nostrils like an ache does my heart. Nitrogen, oxygen, and honeysuckles waft an aroma of pain which penetrates my thoughts. The smell of gasoline seeps through the cracked windows of my open wounds. My vision is clouded like the stormy sky above. I still love breathing in the saturated air, damp with residual moisture from the rain. But there's an emptiness in it, a loss of what was. There’s a memory still of a love washed away. The season of nostalgia is alive and well.