Something in There Was Mine

I went to return Paulette's key—

she'd asked me to hold it while she was away—

and when she opened the door

the smell came out and I stopped. Halfway

through whatever I was going to say.

She said are you okay.

I said your apartment smells like something.

She laughed and said like what.

I didn't know like what.

I stood there with the key still out,

trying to locate it—

not the smell but the room it was about.

Not food. Not cleaning product.

Not a person.

Something with a floor to it.

A room. A certain version

of a place I used to be.

She took the key.

Said you sure you're okay?

I said yes, sorry, long day.

I drove home.

Sat in my car outside my building

for forty minutes

with the window open, still holding

onto it.

There isn't an address.

There's just the smell

and the room it belongs to

and something I was

before I could name things—

before I had the word for whatever

it was that made a room feel

like it was already yours.

Paulette's door closed.

I'm still in the doorway.