I measure every smile I meet,
the depth of grieving sorrow
and the insolent gaiety carrying
the fragrance of her dried up tears.
In them I can smell the impatient scent of love
and the stench of fruitless pursuit
and useless perseverance.
I still own her book of love sonnets
with crumbling pages that carry the mark of sullied love.
I read them in my busiest moments,
which smell of burning paper and wet mud.
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