I thought
it was
the polaroid
faded into
colors
that transported
me back to you
curled
corners
and
all

I thought
it was
my whisker's
smell
as I
scratched
finger tips
into
them and
held them
to
my nose
and you
were
there
drifting
by

And then
talk of
spring and I am there
being
chased by
newborn colt
both of us glistening
black
in the promising
breeze
as
tiny
ice
cracked
under
your
presence

And
in
the smell
of a
pipe

And
the
smell
of
hay

And
in
a card
game

And
stories
of
living
next to
a
cave where
Jesse James
hid out

And
a trip
to
California
where you
put the
top down
the
whole way

And
the
smell
of hogs

And
how
you
never
seemed
satisfied

And a
trunk full
of medals
and stories of
you being a
paratrooper
and
falling
into crimson
German
skies

And this
feeling of
missing
you.