I fell in love
at 17
with a boy,
who called me “beautiful”;
he wasn’t remarkable:
skinny,
bearded
rolling his eyes,
asking me to play
my flute as if his life depended on it,
a runner
whose bad habit was he smelled his jacket
in a way that mystified me–
I wanted to be everything to him
and he to me
and sometimes I thought he was.
though he’d push back
speak of a girl in Lebanon who he thought
was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen
I was too young then to know the difference,
between beauty and substance
and I was too young to know
whether I should hang on or let go
and I was too young to know I was stupid
when an old man wanted to shag me
not promising me love
or anything, nothing now that I realize
but glorification for deeds proceeding
and I was too young and stupid
to know that coffee with my first love
might have been redemption
and his life…
and then he was gone in the cold waters
of Boston Harbor and I’d wonder ever since
what my (our) life might have been
Sascha Darlington
The story of my life, only with women.
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Smelling his jacket! I had a mate who constantly smelt his sleeve, I don’t know what he was looking for, he’s passed away now too so will never know, maybe he liked the smell of his arms.
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Perhaps it was the smell of “leather” or he was in love with himself and enjoyed his own scent. Well written for sure!
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Perhaps, in an alternative universe, you discovered why he smelled his jacket….
A well-written narrative poem!
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Your description kept me in suspense and I remain wondering what happened to that boy.
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I wonder too what happens with all those connections we might have hooked into… the mystery of smelling his jacket might be a story in itself, a story we can only imagine.
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You’re right. Why would someone do that? Gauge the smell of pot? 😉
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