i still try an recreate his scent.
dust, sweat, sun, smoke
and then i just smell my hands
and pretend you're here and go back to those moments
when i wasn't mistrusting or tired or dangerously attached to you.
and it's just being
and it's just those moments that are immortalized
because the closest to eternity is right now
and right then and there
without a framework around your conception, no context to these pleasurable memories
just expanses of happiness

boy do i like kissing smokers.
the smell of soft car upholstery in the sun
milky skin
jazz music
pink clouds
sepia tones
everything
it's just a trip

meeeep
lame