Erika

She smells like the scent of lilacs in the breeze.
I inhale it as I walk along
alone in the cemetery, except for the birds.
I'm alone with my thoughts, free to
say them out loud if I want to.
But no. As I round the corner and can
see past the trees, there is another here.
She may have assumed she was alone too.
Alone in her grief.
We are strangers.
Each alone and longing for another.
Perhaps we each feel intruded upon.
We have that in common too.
The air is heavy with the scent of roses
wet and glistening from the summer rain.
But I keep smelling lilac.