, ,

You are like perfume
to my days,
your presence diffusing from
its high-concentration source
to grace the farthest corners
of the room,
announcing your existence
but unmistakably,
branding my clothes
with an invisible stain
I cannot shake off.
The more I move
the more of you
I get on myself.

Like the fragrant amalgam
of oils concocted by
twenty-first century alchemists
with seduction as the new gold,
of fruit and floral essences
gathered from places so remote
their atlas entries sound like dreams
poured into designer bottles
and smeared into
slender strips of cardstock
typeset with elegant names
and handed out to window shoppers,
I carry our ephemeral encounters
in the hip pocket of my jeans
pulling them out every so often
to inhale your memory
as I cross the street or
take phone calls in the living room
and it’s a little like
you’re right there next to me

Your persona is contagious,
playfully tricky,
simulating illusions
of being gone,
making me accustomed to you
until I almost
don’t notice you anymore,
but when your scent disappears
the air suddenly
smells incomplete,
so handicapped
and devoid of beauty,
enough to breathe
to survive,
but unworthy of me

and it’s got me
cursing the fresh air,
the November breeze
for not making me
bold enough
to say something.

Someone opened a window
and I miss you.