Postal Sack

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There’s a plastic postal sack sitting across from me in the corner

that has your smell. 

Because you sprayed some perfume in there last week,

before you sent it.

Over the sea. 

And you’re nowhere around

the house and the fields are both empty

but your smell is here. 

And now your neck is, 

becoming less. 

The top of your chest. The bottom of your almost ringlets. 

Hovering. 

I inhale and inhale further, and make love with you.