There is a stench of earl grey, fruit so sour that mouths turn inside out and resemble wheelbarrows curved inward. It is difficult to let go. To walk past the path that you memorized like your name or favorite flavor of ice cream. None of this may look familiar. None of this smells like sadness, instead citrus. Its bitter begs you to carry more in. When was the last time you smiled without wire and obstruction of caution tape. Saying goodbye allows space for welcome signs, so thick and loud that this banner comes with its own sound system. Your body is bleeding out gusts of wind, washing away every ounce of loitered memory. Breathe in trunks so high, you mistake them for skyscrapers. Enter. Climb up the staircase of approachable petals. Drink in the pollen of another. Linger the flavor before swallowing this moment. Call it lemon. Call it starch or necessity of diet. Call it pen pal. Call it sprite or flash of collision. Call it love found inside a photo booth on a friday. Call it red or dripped of pigment. Call it pronoun of gender neutrality. Call it a feeling.