PotPourri

Your loves entwine for two years, maybe three.
She is the salt in bread, the music's bass.
And if you dreamed, it would be of her face,
But cannot sleep for love, and nor can she.

The fever drops but never goes. Look down
two stories to a taxi, see a glove
fumbling for change and know her – it's not love
so much but she's still part of you. No noun

is quite the accurate descriptive word.
Empty a cupboard, find scrunched in a ball
a shirt that smells of her. It must be all
of five years later. What has just occurred?

Feelings deep-rooted, though they make no sense,
dried petals scent in nostrils still intense.