My old coconut perfume
smells like mornings in Ōrākei.
I would wake up
hungover driving home
friends who I no longer have
anything in common with.
I still can’t drink
Malibu. It smells like pouring
half drunken bottles
down the kitchen sink,
wiping stickiness
from the benches.
My finger is bleeding.
Sliced it on a bottle cap.
The band-aid smells
like the Hawaiian air freshener
that it used to live with
in the glovebox.