A.

He- Mine.
Mine but he's not. I don’t know if he was. He said but words don’t count when your chocking them out anyway now do they.
He smells like the inside of a church.
Warm and safe.
Like burned marshmallows. And that cardboard that they make us swallow in mass. The one they try to pass off as the body of christ.
The smell of flesh, and metal, and cold winter wind. Musk.
Spring was suppose to come but it doesn’t smell fresh outside to me.
Its dark and ominous, the smell of a funeral home trying to be holy.
Even when he's gone I could find his scent on my jacket, or hair.
He will always smell like a church to me.
The burning smoke in a church.
He will always be my church.
My church that burned down to flames.
He burned down himself.