How many times have we gone to this field? The tree still has stains from when we would sit there, painting the sunrise. They're so beautiful. The irises. They're still the same as always, but I can't look at them the same anymore. Not when you're not here with me. Their aroma is so sweet it makes me sick. It's too sour on my tongue. It's unbearable. Like cough syrup and the taste of hospital air. Hemlock. I miss you. You would know what to do.