when I felt the spice in my nostrils, 
the burn I’d forgotten about up until right around then, 
all white jasmine and cologne,
chrysanthemum and crystal meth, 
the smells of our homelands
beating up against a setting Sun
ducking behind the San Pedro mesa.
And thoughts of you and paper planes,
the sofa our four-poster and the blu-ray games we’d play 
filled my lungs with yesteryear,
the grooves of my fingertips with memory of your hair,
your head resting on my body while the world restored 
each night for the two of us and
the two of us only.
I felt excitement,
excitement walking down old Beachwood drive, now passing Temple Hill,
towards Franklin and the home we tried to hold
when the city was on fire
and our hearts were full of life eternal.