Her hair smelt jasmine,
I told her that they smelt wonderful
And they smelt jasmine.
I could say that with as much certainty as death.
She smiled, rolled her eyes and said,
‘I know, right? I often hear people say this to me.’
And she fixed her eyes ahead,
On the other side of the road,
As a sadness occupied her face.
Her smile, I could know,
Was a smile of gloom and nothing of pleasure.
I sat at my corner of the bench, staring at her and at the ground.
‘Strawberries, mountains, honey,’ she murmured in sadness.
‘Chocolate, peppermint, vanilla,’ she murmured in anger.
She was murmuring all the names she had ever heard
From people, her so-called lovers, of her hair’s scent.
‘And now jasmine. I am not going to believe it.
I am less stupid now,’ she murmured.
But I could swear by the heavens,
Her hair smelt jasmine, but I could not make her believe.
I had no part in destroying her faith in love,
But being human, I had part in destroying her faith in humanity.
They were all not in love with her,
They all mistook something else and small for love,
Like humans often do.
They all mistook something else and small for love,
Like humans often do.
For they could not know what she smelt.
She smelt jasmine and nothing else.