when he's gone there is no trace
when he's near I can't find him

I lose him all over the place

he prefers it that way
a scent is the clue
that someone else traced
the edges of me
—touch otherwise invisible
to an eye,
naked or blind

a scent is a trailhead
a path through a forest,
a city, a fire
—whether spruce or smog or smoke
a clue to a presence
and whatever it left behind

he wants to be unseen
a thief of both day and night
there and not there

I wonder if he is anyplace at all

I want a mark, something that stakes a
claim to the moments
he takes
—the embers he offers
in cupped palms, kneeling
before me

if not a scent, then a scar
someplace only I can find it