The Essence of Memorization

Cinna-berry… She says.
You have a Cinna-berry car freshener.
He always had one of those, Marco.
He told me that whenever I smelled that smell
I’d think of him.

What a cunt. I say.
Thinking of the scents
Intertwined with memory.

How blueberry lip-gloss makes me think
of a blonde haired boy at age fourteen.
The aroma of buttered pop-corn in a dark movie theatre
and his breath, hot
and smelling of red liquorice.

At sixteen, the boy who smelled of sweat, aftershave,
and cheap cologne,
strong enough to stop your breath.
How I cannot smell the scent of Aqua-Velva
without feeling young and naiive.

Twenty and the odour of night-clubs, hot and stagnant,
two hundred moving bodies, writhing.
The stale odour of spilled alcohol,
pot being smoked secretly in corners and bathrooms,
the blue cloud of cigarette smoke
hanging in the damp, dark, air.
Notes of vanilla, orchids and sandalwood
emanating from girls on the dance-floor.
Whiskey and lust perspired through the pores
of the drunk old men who watch from the bar.
Beer on the breath of the guys who shout
Wanna dance?

At twenty-five the scent of the one I loved,
like a fingerprint, hidden underneath the scent
of his shampoo, aftershave and soap.
I breathed it in, could not fill my lungs enough.
How when he left
I slept curled in a pile of his shirts pulled from the laundry.
How as time wore on that same lingering scent
became torturous, invading my place of recovery.
The scent of strawberry Glade to mask it
can now take me to dark places.

And now,
how I can’t help but be tricked
by men who smell of cigarettes.
Feel a stirring as I watch them inhale
carcinogenic-sex through pursed lips,
exhale clouds of smoke that
cling to their clothes and hair.
I assume they’ll be kind and caring.
They carry the scent of the only man
who’s never hurt me.