Breath

Hyposmia

It all started with a word.

But it always starts with a word,

          now doesn't it?

One word turned roses to

pine needles and pine needles to

smoke and smoke to

the damp floorboards of the basement

after the wood had been attacked

with thunderstorm moisture

          and tears.

And most noticeable was the smell of death.

And it clung to me, that smell of a decaying soul,

the scent of what once was hope,

soon covered with the fumes

          of dust and emptiness.

And now all I smell around me is ammonia,

And now all I am is the only stain

          in a perfect white room.

A constant reminder of fragrant morning dew,

          and the aroma after it rained.

A constant reminder,

          of what happiness once smelled like.