Ghost Talc
The tap would sigh in your kitchen where you would fill the kettle. That's where the lilacs would climb through the window over your sink, to phantom over to me at the table. It's that scent that haunts me. Not you specifically, but your lilac tree. Sometimes I can only remember your face though lilac scent. You live in every part of my spring season. Until, like you, the lilacs pass on without warning; their brief time in my life blows away like floral ghost talc, until I see you again next spring.