Top Shelf, Left Corner Melany Campoalegre I know what you look like, like a vine twirling up a bulky trunk, maneuvering Its way along the protruding wood, rising to the canopies to breathe in the sun. I know what you sound like, like the burgundy velvet walls in the Theatre, absorbing every note, belch, cry, tear until you can press your head and have life meet your ear drum. I don’t know what you smell like. You reach for that bottle on that top shelf, left corner your hand navigating the flora for your prized possession. it’s green with a presumably silver top, rusted with use as if petting a dandelion; you carefully unscrew the top. I never wanted to be a bottle more so than now. one spray
two sprays
three sprays
each less saturated than the last a cloud surrounds me, its arms stretching around me, engulfing me in its strong odor. I still don’t know what you smell like. Not one single object can give off such a scent like you do; it’s so peculiarly you. I could say it smells like candy like flowers like rain like an unopened book
102
I could say any other things, that gives off thingly scents, ordinary and homely But, I say it smells like the painting next to the Mona Lisa, in the corner, unscathed and unloved, reeking of underwhelming acknowledgement like the burnt ocean, peppered with sea urchins and seaweed, cold at the touch, freezing when you dive in, limbs getting lost in the royal blue like freshly cut wood, saw dust crawling up your nose, scrunching your face into a scowl, becoming hard to breathe, a tree growing in your lungs like the dirt within the crevices of my shoes, wet and muddy, rocks digging into my heels, sweat pouring down my ankle, the age of ten like the sunscreen my mother would smack on my face, protection against my life source, salty chemicals, whitewashed faces like the patterns on your bedroom floor, pristine and messy, more splatters of paint than white tiles, spelling out your name. like the day after the first time I saw you cry, acid tears and broken smiles, marks down your cheeks, your arms imprinted by your forehead, carrying the weight of your mind. like the day my father stopped smoking, nicotine mixed with longing, the smoke cloudy and murky, I saw his brown eyes clearly, determined. I still don’t know what you smell like. You wrap your arms around me images cloud my nostrils, smells echo out my ears, I see your laughter, I feel your pain a perfect picture