Missing the Scents of You

To The Lady on the Train,

I miss the scents of you. 

I miss the trail of your perfume that would fill hallways and rooms and empty elevators where you had been.

I miss the way that for days my bedsheets would smell of you. 

I miss falling to my knees to press my cheeks into the folds of a dress and feel the parting of your thighs. 

I miss the frantic of hiking up of that dress the press of my nose against the soft thin fabric that covered the centre of you. 

I miss that scent of you that would flood as your body tensed and your back arched and my tongue held you suspended.

And I miss how while I stayed kneeling in front of you, your back pressed to tile, your face would twist away and upward. And then the  pressing and pulsing of you against my face and the relaxing of your knees.

I miss how you would grab my hand to pull me up to kiss me deeply. And how the scent of your hair filled me.

I miss how afterward I would cup my hands over my face and find the secret scent of you still there.

I miss the scent of you just being there.

The Man in the Station

I have not the words

To The Lady on the Train, 

I do not know what words to use that could ever describe your beauty. How could lines of ink on a page ever come close to showing how the lines of you change the beat of my heart? 

How could the pressing of keys on a keyboard ever convey the press of your gaze and how one is filled and emptied at the same time. 

There is no photograph even that can match the light that you shine. 

Though I lack the tools and the ways and means, I will try to find a way to show you just how amazing you are. 

The Man in the Station

The Last Sign of You

To The Lady on the Train,

I bent to inspect a crack in the tub
A dark thin line against white porcelain
My bare feet on cold black and white tiles
But my hand pulls away a long strand of your hair.
 
I hold this secret curl of you in my palm
It had been weeks since you were in our sanctuary
I used to find strands of your hair throughout my world
And feel your presence in every corner
The scent of you filled the bed sheets
 
A dark thin arch against white skin
Holds a weight of years
Holds the sway of all my thoughts
And this, the last strand, has cracked porcelain and me

The Man in the Station