I just had this thought the other day — about how less repulsive dead things would be if they smelled better, if they smelled of beginnings and not ends.
In some ways, even a love that dies lingers on our bodies with its putrid scent. It stays back long after the lover has left — in the way we look at the world, the way we think, the way we talk to certain people, our reflexes, etc. This is especially true of a love that ends on a bitter, one-sided note.
However, if we give ourselves our own time, gradually the death of that love can leave our person. Eventually, we can all come back to ourselves — even if we have been permanently changed, because change happens in every second and it is inevitable.
If only, inside everything that died, there was a perfume organ to release sweet smells to passenby, perhaps all dead things could become flowers. Perhaps, then, my next lover could follow the then sweet scent of your departure, pluck your love off my lips. And plant his own there instead.
So, give ourselves time and take lessons from our heartbreaks, holding on to the hope that next time will be better.