While packing last night, I spilled
her perfume. The bottle shattered.

Her smell everywhere. I picked up
the pieces absentmindedly,

thinking about the end of
my relationship with my partner

of 12 years. 13 if you count
the last one, which we didn’t.

But the smell of my dead mother
just kept infiltrating the scene.

Her getting ready in crushed velvet
lighting mixed with our first date.

What it was like to build a life with him
against the end of hers as it soured.

The heavy weight of what becomes us.
I chased tiny shards of glass along

the bathroom tiles. Picking up hair
in the grout. And I missed her.

And I missed him. And I missed the now
evaporating opportunity to wear

that damn perfume.