Is it this?

I could smell the sun in you,

freshly squeezed it seems,

from the musty mould

that grows everyday-

in my furnitured brain.

Or, maybe, i smelt just you again.

Is it possible to possess?

As the night does,

clinging to its scent-

even as it melts-

in darkness,

and shadows,

and dreams?

Or, maybe, it's just loveless to possess.

I can still see the scribbles you nailed -

randomly,

on the already scratched

musty, mouldy wood.

They were measured

as life is -

in teaspoons.

Or, maybe, i should leave them undeciphered.

I can smell you again

here,

now-

in you.

That how 'this' whiffed out

perhaps-

for a measured while

from the musty mould

of the sprawled furniture

that is me.

Just tell me-

should i love

or

quit?