scent

I don't wear perfume.

I let myself be crushed
like those flowers
pressed into the fullness
of being themselves,
like their fall into
a puddle of rain on tar,
brightening up the greys,
like the wind
holding their hands
and letting go after a while,
carrying the scent
of their being
in his palms.

the scent of a skin
loving how it lives,
and dies.