it’s just a hint, really. a
whiff of acrid smoke
sickly sweet, like you just
stepped in dogshit,
and haven’t had the chance
to clean your shoes.
i know that smell, and
wonder if this is how i smelled
for the better part of a
decade – surrounded by a cloud, or a fog –
like flowers, maybe,
oblivious to everything but myself;
skin, self-contained. other
smells fill my mind:
sandalwood, patchouli, ylang
ylang.
sitting in my apartment,
sometimes alone
and sometimes not alone.
reading, writing,
making art or making love.
one way or another,
it was hiding. so many
things were hidden.
so many things.
i wish i could
remember
more about those days. those
moments
are fugitive still, they
sniff around the edges
of regret, always just out
of reach, firing
the limbic system, amygdala
and hippocampus
shaking hands and lighting
up
the
past and present.
