Books Still Smell Like You

Dear You,

There are places where you never left.

That coffee shop near the water?
Still haunted by your laugh.

The library aisle with the ancient astronomy books?

Still smells like your hair and ink and something holy.

I don’t go to those places much anymore.
But they go to me.

When I’m soft.
When I’m tired.

You return like a scent memory—
like something that can’t be scrubbed out of the soul.

I’m not trying to forget you.

I’m trying to hold you
in ways that don’t burn.

Some days I almost get it right.

—Castor