Orpheus could not bring back Eurydice.

You don’t smell like you used to.

The resilient smell, bound by amorousness, that your body emanated is no longer welcome where you are.  Instead it is a venomous, sharp smell in the monarchy of the drifting senses.  On the reverse, we loathe the smell of mortality.

I smell out (and I am sure of this) the death in this hallucination as if your death was my own.

The clock ticks.  The music ends.  The runners are home.  Your scent, lingering, like an incent smoke.