The warm Summer air smelled of cinnamon, honeysuckle;
you of travel and sea, tobacco.
Years later they made a fragrance like that,
and sold it in small bottled portions.
They want too much money
for a fading memory, a sense
that is well overdue, but
each time I pass those testers,
in shops between the scents of sweet chemical flowers
– pinkish, or the musky kind –
I spray a bit of long time gone in my hair, my neck,
going for free illusions of you. My mind
can’t tell the difference;
when I close my eyes, all is true.
If I get a chance, if no one is watching,
more is misting down my skin,
to find you back, retrieving those nights
we secretly claimed as ours.