I can tell by the way the paper smells,
like day-old rain, wet earth, the dank
aroma of the window box soil stuck
to the edges and in-between the dulled ink,
and if I was there, I know my eyes
would be tearing up by now,
itchy and pink like a newborn,
leaking softy—a garden hose that
sprung a hole— without much worry
for the powder that was applied
just before, which is not unlike
how you kissed me the first time,
without much worry about my lip-
stick staining your lips; after, you looked
as if you’d been bobbing for apples
in a bowl of strawberry jam, and
when I laughed at you, you said,
“It’s springtime, baby”.