I learned a new language today,
each word a combination of
morphemes of scent,
the head note, mid note, and heart note
forming footholds of syntax.
I tried to recreate you in this language.
I distilled your smile into
the sweetness of lychee, placed it
in the head note: always the first part of you
that I notice.
In the mid note I placed
lemongrass and tobacco,
warm and spiced, resonant in the air,
a scent that embraces me, clings to my red dress,
says in your golden tones:
I’m here for you.
And into the heart I breathed
those heavier notes:
the gunsmoke that chases ever after you,
the silver that burns against your skin,
the musk of something wild, untamed.
It’s you, almost—then I realize
the word we share
that fills my lungs,
lingers sweet on my tongue,
for only one sense.