i smell something of the past. 

reminds me of something sad, 

something long ago. a bit blurry, 

a bit far away from me. 

makes me want to return to your arms, 

to the smell of your cheeks, of your hair, 

as you bat your lashes thinking 

of something you want to hear, or see, 

or sometimes always of food. 

you never ran out of things to make me tell you 

as i always ran out of breath; 

for when you had always been near me, 

how am i supposed to forget about everything, 

out of everything that you had said to me, 

and i, done towards you as my love, 

how come the world never, 

have wanted, became us. 

we did run out of time, 

and nobody did tell us how this fuckery goes, 

and that everything planned won't ever come to, 

why didn't we just stay... 

with that something of our present, 

never minding the ticks and tones, 

we could've just lain bones to bones, 

breath on breath, my nose on your breasts, 

as if each kiss was meant to slow down time, 

each kiss, we begged against everything, 

against being normal again, against pain, 

against... oh i don't know, just fucking please, 

i don't want to mess things up again for me. 

making mortal things last seems stupid 

yet i still try to everyday. i know why i shouldn't 

yet i still fuck it up, somehow, 

and again and again, 

perfectly aware, not giving a shit, 

making this whole load of bull 

the existence that only makes sense. 

i have familiarized myself with nothing 

but agony and anxiety, and i know that 

i won't be calm as much 

if nothing else goes wrong, 

and yet this smell, this smell of the past, 

your smell, at least, 

was this one thing that had always been right.