(little different kind of poetry today)
She was the crisp air you crave after a summer rainstorm.
A girl unlike any I had met before. She was carbon monoxide; a silent killer. The air in my lungs, even when I'd choke and gag.
Her and I quickly became friends, though we became more even quicker.
She wore a specific perfume: vanilla with a spiced note at the end. Our relationship had been on the downlow, deciding it would be best that way, but every time I'd pass my girl in the school hallways I'd pick up that scent.
Vanilla with a spiced note.
I soon came to think of her scent as our scent.
Vanilla was me tracing her palm with my thumb and messily braiding her hair while watching a movie.
The spice was sneaking out of class to kiss in the bathroom and littering her hips with red and purple in her dad's toolshed.
All these images would flash at once as I passed her by, then she'd give a wave and a smile.
Everything was good, until people sniffed us out.
I don't know how it happened, but word got out that we were a deadly duo and I began to lose her.
She had run into issues in the past, but with me in the mix it only got worse. The comments weren't behind our backs anymore. We were now met with threats, glares, and poorly disguised taunts.
My girl wasn't mine anymore; in the months that followed she wouldn't wave to me in the halls, wouldn't loan me her palm, wouldn't meet me in our stall, and wouldn't invite me into her bedroom.
I could smell the inevitable before I could feel it looming over my shoulder. Her perfume was almost unnoticeable when she told me we shouldn't see each other anymore. A silent killer.
Our peers had gotten to her, or maybe she just grew to hate the smell of vanilla with a spiced note.
