A Perfume Called Pain

I don't leave home without it.
A dab or two,
applied directly on the skin,
sometimes
with notes of fear and self-doubt.

On lazy summer afternoons,
mute
to the supposed wisdom of the crowds,
the dewdrops
roll on the brow
as I let myself
douse in the sillage
until the deluge
sears the heart
slowly.

He closed his eyes
took a deep breath
and stopped.
My hand was on his chest.
I stared at the smile on his face
still there.
I stared
for too long
as if
denying
the encroaching chill
or stopping
time itself.
 
The pain
arrived
much later,
not in sudden spurts
but as a slow descent
suffocating me
and separating
my being
from my existence.