Poetry

153. (close enough)

sullen spring-1

*

Baby powder,
old cologne,
clean sweat,
stale tobacco.

Hard liquor.

No one but you
could’ve carried that scent
around broken summer days:

half innocent,
half murderer.

I could always find you,
the dog that I am.

Tonight though,
as I burn with the fever of words,
I catch a whiff, teasing,
rising from my skin.

Liquor,
tobacco,
sweat,
cologne,
powder.

I’m missing the adjectives,
the nuances,
the specifics of it:

Tiny details of you,
chunks of me.

Tonight though,
it’s close enough.
I’ll do.

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