The smell of you

The smell of you
your sweat, your aftershave
and that smoky incense
that seeped from your skin
was so intoxicating,
so dream inducing,
I didn’t wash my sheets
for weeks.

But then you didn’t call
and I was so surprised
by the hurt I felt,
for honestly,
I really hadn’t thought I cared
so much.

And when you did finally call
your voice was so distant,
so far removed,
I couldn’t help but think
I had done something,
some misdemeanour
in your eyes.

And every time I went to sleep
all I could see was your face,
your body,
hovering next to mine
waiting for me to make some move,
waiting to be let in
(I wasn’t quite ready for that).

And in the end I couldn’t even sleep
without some drug,
some mind-dulling sedative
I had to wash everything,
everything that made me think of you,
had to strip the scent of you
from my skin.

Yet still, sometimes, some scent
(some remnant of those feelings
I thought we might have shared)
comes wafting on the breeze,
and I pause in all my daily tasks
and stare long into some deep blue dream wondering how I could have been so weak, how I became so cold and stuck on you and I long for some gentle kiss to wake me from this sleep.

Shoshanna