Three worn T-shirts.
That is all I own these days.

Life has become strange—
the scent of city streets
catching at the throat,
rotting plastic bags split open
under a hidden sun.

Skyscrapers cannot reach
the helicopters in midflight.
No reflections on the windowpanes.
Even sparrows see through them now,
no accidental thumps
from failed visibility.

I fist-pump an escaped polar bear
who understands my thin skin
beneath blanched fur.

I am no longer rooted
in cement.

I try to sing you back to life,
so I spray 724 on my wrists
every day.

I want to know again
the scent of your wrists,
aftershave caught inside your pores,
the Suavitel softness
of your T-shirts.

Who am I
to walk into Bloomingdale’s
on a cool rain-soaked afternoon
and lift the structured bottle of 724
from its illuminated altar?

Iconic thing.

It stares at my lowered pale lids
until I look up timidly
to meet its gaze.

I want you to linger
like a classic perfume
against my exposed skin,
my pulse points,
where even the smallest heat
makes you rise
like steam from a cappuccino.