Poetry: 'contact high'

you know when he perfumes your skin

after making out all afternoon in his bed

arms & legs tangled like computer wires

& you can smell him all the way home

on the bus catching the scent on your wrist

even the next day after a shower he is still

there blooming in your pores—his scent

is like all the men you’ve ever been with

but sweeter somehow & almost dense

the aroma is so potent like when poppers

spill on your nightstand & soak your book-

stack or when the cat pissed in your shoes

because you moved in a new girlfriend

suddenly or when rose-water overbears

a sponge cake or when your friend gets a

migraine from your aftershave—these aren’t

good comparisons, I know, but there is no

other way of describing how much he

has seeped into your arm-hair & elbow

creases & onto your palms which barely hold

scribbled notes, but can easily carry him