that was the year...

that was the year of indian nector, a wrist pull of a smell. cut into pieces and dryed, an eye on the prize although it really wasn’t a prize. it was soap to strengthen the brain and the bottoms of your designer jeans still damp. songs we liked and couldn’t remember the names of. late night invitations perfumed and oiled and barely touched. a climbing orchid bit of skin between pants and shirt, but a creeper, only not the way the days are so obvious now. not the way bike riders get bigger legs. not the sudden distractions of popcorn and notes that float public squares, a collective consciousness that makes it easier to do crossword puzzles, smell the aroma of open pain relief bottles and kiss in hallways with our backs to the walls. the smell of vanillas out to be penetrating and agreeable, so come in closer, put your nose to my temple. later, a taste of church hymns, the remains of us stuck in our teeth, laid out on my bed, or yours, beans processed to smell like your lips just leaving a water bottle and me, suddenly so thirsty.