Ambergris

Too late to ruin a life completely.

And maybe that is why the body refuses to forget it.

Not the person exactly.

The atmosphere of them. The warmth left behind in certain rooms. The way silence changed when they entered it. The unbearable intimacy of standing too close while pretending not to notice.

And even now, years or hours or lifetimes later something remains.

Like the ghost of ambergris
still clinging faintly to a collar or the wrist of someone passing too near—warm and mineral and devastatingly human.

The kind of scent that makes the body remember before the mind has time to defend itself.

Too late to ruin a life completely.

Yet somehow still capable of altering the pulse.

Because some connections never become ordinary enough to lose their sensuality.

They remain suspended
living softly beneath the skin—where longing becomes indistinguishable from memory.

And perhaps that is why these loves endure.

Not because they lasted.

Because they never fully touched the ground.

Like desire itself
trying very hard
to remain civilized.