You smell the same,
as you did,
the first time I hugged you,
and you gripped me tight.

You smell the same,
as you did,
when your dad died,
and I held you,
told you it would be alright.

You smell the same,
as you did,
when you punched a hole in your wall,
you couldn't feel my touch,
but I had to watch over Skype.

You smell the same,
as you did,
when you lost all control,
hit a tree on ecstasy,
going 40 over,
in the middle of the night.

You smell the same,
as you did,
in the hospital bed,
foggy in the head,
I held your hand,
the only part of you,
that wasn't broken,
in sight.

You smell different,
this time,
I don't know where you were,
but with your smell gone,
so is the light.