Out of nowhere her scent appears.
And I forget that she’s dead.
I imagine the skin attached to the air
I’m inhaling. I try to hold it.
As I held you to not let you go
Where I won’t be able to find you amongst
A mass of decomposed particles and perfumes.
If I stretched out my arms and created winds,
Released my tongue, time would stand still and
It would all be gone. The moment of you needs to pass
And I need to walk, not to the rhythm of you,
But I’m still dancing to the tune of your voice.
You’re so close, I cannot move.
You ran through me and your soul was within mine, again.
“Buste de femme de profil” by Georges Clairin (1843-1919)