Love letter # 192

We all bow before the seasons. Every year it’s the same – the particular perfume of beginning, the smell of promise. The scent in the air that night.

And you spilling wine on my shirt. Your hand on my chest as I changed. My eyes hungry. Yours too. Him in the other room.

You might say you regret it, but there isn’t anything I wouldn’t burn again. I learnt to notice the flowers that year.

And I smell them now and think of your skin.