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.