“I am who I appear to be,” said the man. “Only most of me does not appear.”

“I am who I appear to be,” said the god. “Only most of me is not apparent.”

“Ah,” said the man. “You and I are not so different.”

“Yes,” said the god. “And no.”

As I held her, she laughed.
Because I didn’t know whether she smelled of

Roses,
Lavender,
or Vanilla.

And I laughed.
Because I knew whether we wander

English gardens,
or the hills of Provence,
or Aztec temple grounds together,

I think only of how she smells as I hold her.