Some smell the sweet aroma
Of a cute boy who walked down
The street, a cup of hot morning latte
Warming his palms.
Some smell the earthy growth
Of a poisonous plant called infatuation;
Irrational, superficial, physical.
Some smell the sweaty palms
Of a writer whose days and cold nights
Have went by crafting the perfect poem
Some smell pieces of torn paper of
Decaying love, lust, disposed,
Not even consumed.
Some smell the salty tears of a
Broken heart, shattered, stepped on, thrown,
Never picked up.
Some smell the metallic scent of wounds—
A rejected boy, blood spilled, drained,
The carpet now decorated with dark carmine splatter.
Some smell—I mean,
Will he ever smell?
Some don’t smell the rotten scent of
A boy, drowned, lost in lust, who looked for love
In a lonely life littered by locked closets, lies,
Boring eyes, a fake guise.
Boy, let me smell your silky hair in bed,
Your musky sweat, sweet latte.
Your floral scent, scarf,
Your defined muscles, divine lips.
Boy, let me smell love.