Lonliness and Namia

by Douglas H. King

I sometimes simply miss the smell of her.
Lilac incense and opium ash
hardly take the place
of solid form, scented air
that you could rub into your clothing
with all the calm caresses
and teasing brushes past her arms.
Perfume scented smoke can't be hurried
nor held in the space between your lips
like the slow, close kisses on her hands...
arms, shoulders, neck, and cheek.

But I still miss the smell
of a head turned slightly to the right,
while invading senses intrude the soft skin
and barely audible sounds of flesh and flesh
mutter to the mind, "This is worth your time."