I lean back on my swivel chair,
determined to not swivel around,
because you’re just behind me,
to the right,
but for now pride’s got the upper hand,
and temptation bids its time.

So with eyes shut
and ears wide open,
I resolve to lose myself,
In the clickety-clack
of your keyboard.

Instead,
I hear your chair slide back,
and you stand up,
as if my thoughts had offended you.

You walk away swiftly,
splashing your familiar fragrance
with the suddenness of your movements,
giving me something to hold on to,
in the hopelessness left in your wake.

I wish I had spent more time in gardens,
so that I could assign your scent a name.