the process of anosmia

on this patio
a random breeze
carves me
like a butchers knife.

i still don't know
where it came from.

i can still smell your
scent like a bee
on a bloom,

but it's a little less
than yesterday.

i still don't want to
believe
that the human heart
is nothing
more than a kite
on greasy string,
with icicle hands
trying to hang on,

but it is,

and memories
will one day turn into
fog.

in five years
these mountains
bowing before my eyes
will still be here.

and in five years time
this scent
will be nothing more
than a shrub
on a tomb.