Number 11

Sometimes your odor comes to me.
Hitting me, punching my nostrils,
lasting for a blessed crumble of time
on the wings of a butterfly’s day.

I would love to keep it forever,
covering it under my skin,
under those goose pumps I have when I think about
the squared profile of your nose
descending, diving, into
the sugarly curves of your lips.

Sometimes your absence strikes me at the point
I perceive your hand crossed in mine
while following these crooked paths,
tight enough to not let you depart
together with the bruned leaves.

But I know, such a bittersweet understanding
of this memory,
and still a century I have to live
before my collar bone
will hold your breath again.

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