If i remember it well, it was a dark streetlight day
where he and i went around the city.
The middle of Tower bridge was the meeting place
because was such a stale theatric.
He used to talk of the stars but never bothered to look at the sky.
But i am going off track.
By my own pleading, I took him to a table of books
beneath an old bridge somewhere in London.
I asked him to smell a withered copy of Les Fleurs du mal and
his comment on it was something I ignored
I thought it was unimportant since he was a pinnacle of greatness.
But it was not until i found you that I realised the importance
of a lover’s reaction when you ask them to smell a book
that has been in the hands of many people before you.
My old lover told me it smelt of sewers.
You said it smelt of my soul.
I just loved the whole feel of this and it’s simplicity