You smell like cigarettes and wild spice.
You smell like home.
We have bloody feet from
walking on the broken parts that
we drop, when we speak.
But you are good at the right moments.
The moments where all I need,
is my hands held.
Or a cheesy awkward smile.
Or when you stand close enough, so
that I am reminded, of what home smells like.
Engine oil, and body wash.
I love you.
We are imperfect.
And, that is alright.