perfume

boxes are

as tall as me

in this miragic moment;

words aren’t real - poems

are meant to be misunderstood.

and i take with me,

this vial of history,

this breath of Angels,

breath of 18.

a clear bottle,

an empty bottle ( not even close )

with flowers like the

ones

i finally buy myself.

it smells like fruits

and

weddings;

it smells like

a

girl i know

who does not know me.

she looks for me

in stars, in summer,

in portugal,

in hotel pools

and oceans

and airplane trails.

she looks for

me

in red and faultpersonified

and her dreams

and her nightmares

but she is faced with an empty night.

she looks in the mirror

and sees a lack of me.

but time curls around

itself,

hands her a gift

and i am rocking her in bed

therearesomethingswenevermoveonfrom

i am here for her now.

her knees ache with yearning

but i am beneath her, i catch her fall,

from shoulder to lap,

i have always been there.

and somewhere there

is someone,

and she smells my orchid

perfume and

wonders why i ever felt alone.