Scent of an Ex

This room smells like a good kisser

With a collection of liberated street signs.

I’m caught in the fragrance of my ex –

Old denim. Facial hair.

Glasses and a knack with computers.

Slightly clammy arms and machinery.

It’s the scent of a difficult but correct decision.

I had thought smell was individual, like fingerprints.

But perhaps, to memory, a person is a collection of tiny smells,

Each carrying a memory to the nostrils of the unprepared.

It passes with the gaggle of boys walking by.

Replaced by the scent of brisket, whiskey, and promise.