the scent of ghosting

Dear my nose,

I love how you carry memory, of ages, of fears & hopes. You smelled something fishy, and here we are following the scent to the truth of it. Like following tiger to the den. I think I've always been like that. Searching for the gift on the other side of uncertainty. Except this time — it's the uncertainty, no sides: there they are, this is my substances, my queernesses, my big G over H, my Christ-Buddha and her supernatural births, childhood t-ma hidden here like wound-masks, like the mother who goes ferile to protect. The scent of mystery: I am sorry for burning you out, for fraying your nerves,

And ghosting you,
love