a child, me, looking at a lilac bush
through a window over the stove.
curtains in the breeze. purple aromas
tickle me. what an odd place,
this new old home, with these flowers.
the scent made mom queasy.

or was it my wife, before she split,
who didn't like lilac? this is rhetorical:
i know she didn't. i remember another layer
of something ripped away, a new place
to be alone. that was it: absence of it.

empty window, absence of it.
never the scent again until
i first pressed myself to your skin
and inhaled deeply - did you feel? -
what you were at that moment with me,
lilacs, breeze and something shared
so deeply it brought back loss after loss,
even in its new fragrant promise.