smack

poetry

the fragrance of rose buds in bloom
the fragrance of my kid’s poo poo
the way you smell after a plane
the way you often stink of shame
the fragrance that you smell when all
your friends quit smoking and you
pressed on to be “consistent”
missing all but your contentment
knowing smells bring back that shame
knowing music does the same

missing the smells of your first high school
the one before people knew the real you
knowing you can never go back but
never forgetting that fragrant smack

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