a colleague smells of the perfume you had gifted me
you had given me three bottles of those
transparent bottles with a hint of violet in the liquid
they smelled thick, and lilting
the smell curled its way into my senses
first my wrists smelt of you
then my neck
then the back of my fingers
i wanted to feel you around each time any part of my body came close to my face
my knuckles chimed of your breath
i grasped my palm the way you had on that December afternoon in your car
i try to feel my lips on your knuckles,
remembering how your peck had felt there
these memories, Polaroids drawing blank on most days
except days when I hear the flute
or when i sense you close
someone i have grown fond of recently sends me a photo of them from when they were in school and they look like you
the same small eyes, the piercing-yet-lost look
your hair was chemically straightened,
the slender curve of your voice
the blanched economics notes i lost in your car
the passenger seat drives, the imported bourbon and cucumber sandwich
your hand on my soft knee
the twinkle in your smile revealing your crooked teeth
today the colleague who smelled of you
spoke of religious texts with me
one of these books i had read several times while i was with you
for lack of books at home, i had read this one pious religious text over and over again
and today when he smelled of you
my eyes were watery,
misty in your memory
and foggy in the loving memory of my mother who thought i read because i loved her
if only i remembered the name of the perfume
if only i could varnish off the remembrance of you from the patina of my memory
if only the flute i bought from munnar in 2014 could replace the notes in my mind from 2007