He left the jacket on the chair

He left the jacket on the chair,

a heavy denim, hanging there.

I walked into the spare room, slow,

and felt the quiet start to grow.

But in the air, a phantom trace,

a scent that lingered in that space.

Not strong, not quite, just a faint cloud,

like memories, soft and bowed.

His cologne, a kind of steel and spice,

a final presence, not quite nice

or sad, just there, a truth I knew.

The room held him, and I did too.