the hunt: scent

My fingers smell like ginger, a vestige of the inari I just ate even though my stomach is in a State of Civil Unrest because it's an unruly bitch like that.

But -- anyway -- the ginger:

it reminds me of you.

And not because you ate some last night

because you didn't smell like it

but rather

like camping, sticky-sweet burnt sugar,

like air and desire and the utterly unmistakable

scent that is yours, yours alone,

that I want to drown in each time it slips

beneath my nose

trap it, keep it there,

always.

I like you best, us best, love best.

Like the first time I introduced you

to ginger & inari.

Snowstorm, I think, you gave me that look

like, really? You really want me

to eat this?

Or when we tried it at the sushi place

the other week

and you said "it's just like Wegmans."

Or when I got so excited about finding

ginger chews

at Queens

only to discover that they're actually

kind of disgusting and spicy-tangy

to the extreme.

And when I sink

into your skin

be it night, noon, morning,

(anywhere, any-when)

not wanting to come up for air

just melting,

breathing,

it is you

that I love best.

I had to find you / tell you I need you /

...tell you I set you apart. [coldplay]

The only thing I know about where we're going is that we're going there together. & aside from space and waste and life's blind fury-- I know we'll get there.

When, I don't know. Don't really care. Isn't time irrelevant, isn't it lose around its edges?

Don't we move between seams and hems and zippers?

One thread tug, one sheer slice, one empty escape.

I am yours.