Perfume

I couldn’t describe
the perfume you wore
when we were lovers
but I carry it with me
like a well-worn scarf
now as faded as
the beach house we shared
that week in November.

The paths we chose
once crossing so perilously
are worn and distant
turning to dust
the ashes of our affair
a carefully packaged story
rewritten by us and by time
softening desire’s sharp edges.

It’s better that way
- don’t you think so, too?
to remember the falling
and not the crash
believing we drifted apart
knowingly, consensually
to staunch the letting
of illicit abandon.

Buried in the stories
I still tell myself
beneath the weight of
growing old and apart
lies a longing as naked
as our first embrace 
intoxicating as those months of
reckless passion.

Now your memory rests
quietly in the shadows.
I nudge it sometimes
just to watch it roll over
anticipating the times
without warning or wanting
your perfume drifts into
an unguarded mood
and in an instant
my heart aches again.