There is a Treacherous Place

there is a treacherous place.
it rests there,
in the upturned corner of your lip, as you sleep.
and in it, exists a very specific and fragrant memory,
of entering your three bedroom apartment,
with light wooden floors, mottled by sweet fermented beer spills.
it is the feeling of a stabbing familiarity.
a nostalgic blurred vision,
an aching,
and childlike regression.
there is a desire to knit this invisible air,
to cover my body and face in your image each night.
even more permeating still,
is a place far more treacherous.
it is in the midst of your unwashed hair
etching delicious oils, deeply and softly into the pillow fibers.
i cant.
i can't.
i can't begin to explain how intoxicating the scent of your skin has been,
and what it will continue to do to me.
but now,
i am alone.
and now the memories of your smell
pillage my sleep,
a clock light reading 1:27am.