The Smell of His Skin

Photo by Damir Spanic on Unsplash

The Smell of His Skin

To see me in a dream

without him

and to know that

I am on the other side

of the dream,

looking at myself,

means nothing to me at all.

I awoke and was startled

to find that I bled

not the blood of my father

or my mother’s milk

but the blood from

the marrow of this man

who had become my soul.

In my morning haze,

I was satisfied to know

that he existed

and was part of me.

That’s it,

and it stumbled upon me

as I lay next to him

while he slept,

knowing that it was something

just to smell his skin.