a smell of cologne

maybe time travel is real.

it doesn’t come in the physical sense of being transported.

i won’t be waltzing in an 18th-century ball,

but when that stranger walked by me,

and i smelled his cologne,

i was back in your arms again.

–

it’s not always a smell.

it’s also the opening notes of that song

or the way the air feels right before a storm.

the itchiness of laying in the grass, the dampness of the nighttime ground,

a missing canine in an otherwise perfect smile. 

–

it’s not lonely,

not usually,

not more than before.

–

but those things make me miss being lonely with you.