May again

A weddinged flurry of
blossom confetti showers you with
tiny perfect circles on your walk home,
cluttering up the grass verges
which are more pink than green these days.
It's May again, one of your favourites
for jacketless walks and
promises of what's to come.
You've just revisited the perfume that you wore
when you were sixteen
and you're a different person now,
although something in stressful moments
still makes you
pick at careless skin.
Nineteen years and the perfume still
smells the same:
it's always been the one for you
even before you knew who you were.
Consumed by thoughtful albums
you continue to write your book of longing,
and poems about the sky,
grateful for those estuary views
made for preoccupied foggy days.
Sleep is problematic,
barely keeping under for more than an hour but where famous people fall in love with you in fractured dreams.
How many times are you going to ruin a song for yourself,
you think,
but load it anyway as you take another blossom picture to your camera roll.
The sweet smell of the perfume gives you lifts
throughout the day,
and coming home is relief:
you are full of love,
everything you could never have imagined
for yourself
all those years ago.