
My hands never knew how to move so slowly,
until they were two holy, elegant wisps of smoke, each lonely,
knowing every smidgeon of air they nudged aside, floating and rolling.
They held a sliver of sweet, white wood.
So close that it was my entire world.
I set it ablaze and watched it burn.
Inhaling, head thrust back in unbreakable rapture, an ecstasy.
Eyes closed but only to better see a partially faded memory.
Only ever memory, forever more.
It was the smell of your room.
And then sandalwood, the smell of you.
I would drink it, every living drop,
I think, as I watch it roll from the top
of your tricep slowly to the tip
of your elbow, abruptly stopped
for my tongue to know.
You are dressed in black
And you do not see me yet
But I know your sandalwood sweat.
Lavender is the small of your back.
An oil spill pooling fragrantly.
Soon to swell over its shores,
and archipelago your spine in its sea.
I can still see those islands,
and feel your angles under my hands.

