Traces

I thought I smelled her today.
Then I realised how ridiculous that would be.
And yet, at the same time, I was so certain...
There was something in the air.
Because,
She smells like the meadows full of wildflowers at Rainier.
She smells like fresh sheets, right out of the drier.
She smells like a perfectly steeped cup of tea.
She smells a little bit like the Teriyaki  place on Front Street.
She smells like a good, smokeless, sweet cedar fire.
She smells like ink on paper.
She smells like Anzac biscuits and ice cream.
She smells (and tastes) a lot like ripe fruit.
She smells a bit like her car, like she's been places.
Sometimes I think she must use my facewash, because I'll turn around and expect her right behind me.
The closest thing I have is her sweatshirt
(Which rests beside my pillow)
But even that is a faded representation
Of what it's like to
Bury your face into the (tailor-made) spot
Between her neck and shoulder
On tip-toe.
She smells like none of these things, and yet
All of them in varying proportions, all at once.
I just pick up traces of it,
Everywhere I go.
Reminding me (in yet another way) of something- someone-
I can't quite reach.