I thought I smelled you

on the back of my hand as I woke up, not thinking about much.

on days like this where love is a bruise touched purple and pink,

layers of skin separated by blood and hurt

and you and I, still in love, lay next to each other, fruitlessly touching ourselves,

not thinking of much out of necessity.

I thought I smelled you after your morning cigarette when you come back to bed

and bring fire on your breath and ash on your hands and when you touch my chest, you entomb me.

your girl smell, your flowers and sweat and cigarette heart, all now sits preciously & precariously on the back of my hand, just barely there, inside me.

Maybe I’ve learned to make your smell out of my skin, synthesizing the best of your love

to put me back to bed when I wake up sure

you’re next to me, breathing in waves, holding my heart, making me weep while I stare at your skin for hours until the sun comes up behind you and your halo.

I thought I smelled you on the back of my hand, but now I'm thinking too much.


How can I think the way I love you now,

which is so different than the way I used to love you, but is still unquestionably love.

How do I explain to you that it’s hard to leave your bed at night because I can feel that inside you is a book about my body as it used to be

When it contained more organs,

tubes, and eggs.

How do I tell you that I remember your body with my fingers,

how when I touch your chest I remember you before you grew,

How do I hold you quietly in the dark when

Inside you is a memory of myself I'm afraid I'd lose if I left you.