The Smell You'd Recognize

Their voice on a podcast—

just a few seconds before I could

turn it off—and my whole body

remembered.

Not their face. That's already gone.

Not the room or the day.

Just the smell. The one underneath

the perfume, underneath everything,

the one I could recognize

in any crowd, any country,

any year from now.

Light came through the gap

in the curtains. Morning light,

the kind that shows you everything.

Their skin was warm. I was

trying to memorize it—

the smell, the weight, the way

their shoulder moved when they

beathed, like they were trying

to memorize me too,

like they knew this was temporary,

like this was the only time

we'd let each other see

what we really were.

I was right. It didn't last.

But the smell did.

Years later and their voice

comes through a speaker and

my body doesn't care about

the words. My body just

remembers. Just reaches back

for that particular scent,

that particular morning,

that particular belief

that we were telling each other

the truth.