Darkness after lighting
Silence after thunder

Nothing compared to
Heartbreak after you

We were lying together in your bed
I was gently drawing circles on your chest
        You were smiling and gently humming to yourself.
Every moment we spent together was always
        blissful and beautiful.

And I asked you a question
        as I turned my head to the side
                to listen to your heartbeat
                and see a glimpse of your face.

‘If you could go back and visit me at any age
        what age would you choose?’
Your heart pumped steadily
        You breathed evenly
        and you smile grew slightly larger.

‘Am I allowed to interact with you?’
        You always asked questions that I would never think of.

‘Sure,’
        I smiled.

‘I would go to you when you were thirteen.’

My body tensed.
        I was very different then
        I was shallow
        I was lost
        I was not the girl you fell in love with at thirteen.

You smiled.
You inhaled.

‘I would tell you that you are beautiful.
I would reassure you that you didn’t need them,
        that you have a bright and promising future ahead of you.
I would tell you that you are going to do amazing things.
I would help you not to worry about what they think.
I would ask you to never, ever change.

And I would tell you that you are right,
        you do not fit in
in the absolute best way possible.’

A ghost has touched my fingertips
they ache, they shake with fear

Into my feet it flows
and gets hold of me,
grows

This is no joke, love
we should run
before it is too late or before-

what is that?
you shake your head, you're not afraid?

Then I will run alone,
as I use to;
as it has shown to be
my safeguard system

not for me, my love:
for you.

I was sitting with you.
Edging the parking structure,
you told me that when you were young
you would lose your shoes and run away
here.

You danced atop the concrete slab,
and I wondered if I could jump
to the next building, if I tried.

I remember telling you about scents that night.
How everybody had one.
How they usually smelled like their families.
How your house always smelled sweet.

I remember saying that when I went into your house
for the very first time,
I could taste the cinnamon in the air,
as if your mother made cakes
for birthdays and Christmas
and coming homes and going aways.

I remember asking you what my scent was.
You said that I didn't smell like anything, really

and I thought that maybe you hadn't understood,
but now I figure you did.
You were probably trying to say,
in your cryptic way, quoting your own poetry,
that I didn't have a family to smell like.

I just wonder when, exactly
for me at least,
you started smelling like salvation.