There it is again, that scent of you. The one that makes me lift my head and sniff around like a hound, like a fool that somehow thought you’d be there when I turn around. You’ll always smell like my first kiss, like my first puppy love, like surrendered virginity, and the sweat and tears of running across an old quiet town.
I miss you, you know, or maybe I just think that I do. Maybe by missing you, I’m really missing the me that I was. The me that’s gone and the me I’ve lost. And when I cry for you, it’s really me that I’m crying for, fragments of me that I’m remembering, too.
They say we’d always have memories but they often lie. Because even those will be swept away one day, burned in fire and scattered by wind, drowning in the river and swallowed by the din. Gone forever, replaced by others. Not a mark, not a trace. Yet somehow in this moment I’m still haunted by that smile on your face. And recall that moment in time when we kissed and said goodbye.
Nail prints on my palms, scissor marks on your wrists. Public fights and private tears. Betrayals and forgiveness. Moving on, breaking free, you have your life now, and what I’m left with is this:
Whenever I’m smelling blue, I’m really scenting you. The white and blue-grey of years gone by when love, and I, though maybe not fully true, were at least innocent and new.