It is the heady scent of

leather, sweat and gun powder.

Masculine, very male.

Mixed and broken phrases of

Arabic and English

to the smooth language of Italia.

Leaning in close,

deadly, tightly wound and ready to attack.

The smell of

cloves, honey and cinnamon coming from his mouth.

And the underlying smell of

a biochemistry very different from my own.

Scarred fingertips,

stained with blood that has long since dried.

And paint.

And ink.

A poem I wrote for AP Comp. Luckily, I received a good grade.