i can’t seem to forget your scent;
i’m not talking about your little experiment with that tiny bottle of bliss.
or maybe it’s how your clothes smell. or maybe just their warmth.
or your warmth.
it makes me laugh to think that i fell
once for the scent of vanilla and the ruby pullbacks of a lion’s mane,
twice for the mobile arm draped half-hug that happened once
or maybe thrice;
that i ran back to those vanilla beans,
now a bit too sweet for my liking, a lion and a snake in one big pullover.
and how your silhouette stayed in front of that mane and i could still feel
your full embrace,
the unkempt strands on your head
between my fingers, half asleep between empty pillow talks and empty
houses and unsent messages with restless nights that got me to search
for your face
in dreamless stupor, only to
wake a bit too early before getting a chance to feel, hear, or know anything.
both in each other’s reach and rarely greeting the Enter key until one day,
time ran out,
and it crept behind my cheeks with
readied bloodstains; it crept behind our fingers and they pressed down
more than once. i was reminded of your antics and the overused commas
that i missed.
and i remind myself to just stay put.
because it still creeps on and all that i can really do for now is try to find
something else that smells like your clothes and try to wait for something
just as warm.
and nothing else will.