S c ent

It’s a very short trip from here to
The crook of a neck
The shape of one’s speech
Crack in a smile
With a snag in the teeth
Crease on a face
Where a freckle could be
When a lip gets chapped
When a tongue runs dry
And desire gets crisp
It’s so easy to come by

There’s blood under this bridge
A scent to everything we’ve ever done
Falling in a booth or the back of a car
As the mind works on nothing
With a vеngeance

Waiting open is:
A catalog of rеpeated movement
A drumbeat that destroys all sense
A drumbeat that compounds all scent
A ghost fed by what we misinterpret

How did you know
Maybe you were sent
But if so by whom
How did you know