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.