You smell like
Fridays,
February,
damp asphalt,
morning walks;
you are
cold air.
I'm listing my favorite things because
you
are one of them,
part
of them,
are them.
You are pomegranate juice,
downtown.
A thin head of
foam.
Downtown.
You are a pitcher of Sangria...
not downtown.
You are short film
screenings,
screaming
foreign synonyms,
and
tea
and
you
and
me.
You are every plane ticket,
border I cross,
everyone I walk
by
and past.
You are bicycles in Paris
and bare feet
in the street
in Spain.
You are the words
I read
and
the lines I write,
you are
the books
I pick
and
the
days I skip
and
lie
in bed.
You are
all the times
I changed/
change
my mind
and waited
I'm waiting
for
someone
else
who would smell
like Fridays
as well.
You are
not
here
anymore
and
I am
fine with that
as long as I have
everything else
to remind me
of
you.
