20. On conjunctions of

In the earlier days it had been a hint of generic deodorant, gentle residues left upon folds of fabric flicked past my cheek. I would find myself hunching in that unceremoniously ever-same isle in Walmart, sneaking sniffs between passers-by to minimize my apparent creep lvl.5, hunting for your specific variety of specific brand. By the time I had finally figured it out, the association of that particular sense with particular memory was already fading, if not gone.

I am not nostalgic; the replacement was the true worthwhile bargain. An upgrade to your natural you, mingled with a hint of myself, on myself, as my free left wrist habitually rose to cover a yawn at the wheel? It was you.

It was you.

More so than the previously mentioned auditory trigger, this olfactory equivalent packs the real punch that it was you. Last evening I could have drowned in my own hand and arm in you.

Coyly invite me to bed again. I will not decline or deny with wordless silence a second time. Neither will I bring it to your attention for fear that you will ruthlessly take even this away, just like you undid those kisses. I will not forget. Even if my consciousness drifts and my memory of dream and reality mingle in half-out confusion, my impressionable skin does not forget.

My thumb fits over your newest badge under my collar bone.

dot my i's with eyebrow pencils close my eyelids hide my eyes I'll be idle in my ideals think of nothing else but I
I
I
and I