Egyptian Patchouli

In all the years since that weekend that
you “didn’t sleep with” some fellow you met
at GothFest at the Trocadero
I’ve only smelled it once: in the empty lavatory
of a taco joint 3000 miles away from
my railroad apartment in Philadelphia.
I recognized it instantly, that faint trace of vanilla
setting it apart from the more common varietal
hippies use to camouflage the stench of marijuana.
I instantly flashed unintentionally
on the image of your vagina, your pussy kept
so smooth and shaved, perfumed and pink.
I reeled with aphrodisia by the sink.
Since then, the memory of your fragrance
briefly whiffed that day is more intense
than my vague memories of twisting with you in bed.
We didn’t even like each other much, and yet.
I hate it when the throb of pain proves to be so useless.
I strive for relief, picturing your sexy little body
but the thought of you has gotten too polluted.
I keep slicing open my fingers on slivers
shed by your cracked porcelain beauty,
having hidden the smell of my skin beneath
the sharp, insistent scent of Egyptian patchouli.