The smell of her hair
is not lavender or perfume.
It is chlorine summers
and cigarette smoke at a party,
a good party.
Her skin is not velvet.
It is fresh, white linen
that feels like home
the second it is smoothed over the mattress.
Her voice is not a whispering mother.
It is the ocean against the shore
seeping deep into the sand,
wishing it could stay longer.