What is left of her is the scent of
Honey and smoke,
Inside jokes forgotten, and
Late night rides to Chinatown
Where sweet buns left your hands sticky.

Like the flavor of four years ago
That you can’t quite put a finger on,
She disappears like the last straggling notes
Of her dissonant goodbyes—
And only when it’s too late
Will you remember the way she last looked at you.

Where paths may cross
And tangents meet, she
May once again be your shooting star.
Like the rare comet you may never see once again,
She may come back.
Do not
Lose her again.


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