I like looking at our old pictures.

You in your shorts and flip flops,

me in your sweatshirt. I still remember

exactly how it smells: every fiber

heavy with the scent of your skin.

It is my favorite perfume. Sometimes

I show people, just so I can be a

tour guide of our happiness, of our

past. Who we used to be. Children,

but in love. Everything was so honest

we were rubbed raw. We were both

matches and strikers, creating

an explosion that neither of

us could ignore with the smell of

death filling the air. That relationship

killed something in me.(Dylan IV)