Acetate Air

It's not just dust, not simply old.

It's sharper, sweeter, odd.

A chemical story to be told,

by light, by time, by God.

This tin, forgotten on the shelf,

released it when I pried.

A smell that claims a former self,

where moments used to hide.

Like solvents mixed with dried-out flowers,

or plastic left to bake.

It clings through passing hours,

a ghost that won't quite break.

The negatives inside are brittle, dark,

holding what used to be.

This smell, its sharpest, strangest mark,

clinging to me.