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