scientists and romantics

either way, I'll find my way back to you.

The scientists in my brain tell me smell is the strongest of senses. The romantics in my heart disagree. They claim it’s touch instead.

To defend their claims, they bring back my fingers across the bridge of your nose. The fall and the rise of it, a gentle slope here, a bump of pimple there.

They bring my hands back to your temples. A slight dent, pulsating, tiny rivers of life.

They bring back your weight, falling in my arms. The floor is cold, your body is warm — 37 degrees.

I panic, I hold my composure, your head on the blade of my shoulder. And for once I agree, touch is the strongest of senses.

But some night in December, my tear falls on your bed and duvet, like rain hitting the ground, and the dust rises.

It raises the scent of your sweat, your Vaseline for men, your aftershave, your dose of Montelukast, your burp of boiled fish.

And it’s when I start to consider, maybe the scientists are right.

Regardless, just so you know, I'll always find my way back to you.