except for a few runaway droplets off his hair.
Wrapped in a towel bare-chested he lays
himself down on the bed, face up under the fan.
Still in pajamas I lay next to him,
my head on his chest. And I can smell it.
The scent of his Old Spice deodorant
releases into the air as he lifts his arms overhead.
There's something about that scent,
something completely him.
He dresses and I drink my coffee,
and our workday is nearing.
A kiss goodbye and he's off.
A sip of my coffee and I'm in the bathroom
running my shower.
Standing naked, waiting for the water
to reach perfect temperature,
I'm left there, with the faded scent of him on my face.
Old Spice, classic.
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