Lingering Scent

I never was a cheerful chap when it came to poetry, there is always something forlorn and missing about my work. This poem enrages me everytime I read it but I cannot fathom exactly why. Perhaps your feedback will help.

My bed still smells of you,
On the pillow where your head would lay
Where the internal conflicts break
The slowly descending winding stairs
Spiralling through the corridor of memory
Now outer limits breached through
Walls loss of hope and dismay
But I can almost feel you move
If I close my heavy skinned eyes
Learning to accept the rejection of the love we made
My bed still smells of you
I just want to lay in your lingering scent
I could hear you if I tried
Through wintry black clouded skies
Each rainbow there painting your face
And no pot of gold for me
For you are too unattainable now
And I too misconstrued
But what did I expect
Whilst my bed still smells of you?

The End

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