You are the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.
You are the soft thud of the door
As I slip out, unnoticed.
You are the breath I take, emerging from the frigid ocean,
And the light I illuminate upon my arrival home on the blackest of nights.

You are not, however the electricity,
Or lack thereof when the power surges in the midst of an essay.
You may be pleased to know that you are not that song
Overplayed on the radio that never fails to irk me.
You are also not the piu right before the mezzo forte,
For that is me. I am the piu preceding the mezzo forte.

I am the spare tire on the underside of your car,
And I am also the F sharp to the B natural, a few cents flat.
It may not surprise you that I am the negative sign you forgot to distribute,
And the feeling of snow seeping in through your boots.

You are not the feeling of snow seeping in a pair of boots.
You would like to know that you are the smell of a sharpie,
Uncapped for the first time, and you are the excitement of using it first.
You are even the taste of catching the first snowflake of the winter,
And eating the first s’more of the summer.
You are the chap stick, found in the pocket of the pants in the hamper,
Or perhaps even the twenty dollar bill in the other.

But I am the learner’s permit that went through the wash.
I am also the candle whose wick is drowned in its own wax.
I am not, however the smell of the decaying leaves.
You are the smell of the decaying leaves.
You will now and forever be the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.