Trail of Memory

The scent of memory, splits the air with a fold of honey.
It coils, like a comet’s tail, in empty pockets.
Each pocket is an extinguished universe, ready to relight with fragrance.
The breath squeezes it between buttons and threads of the past.
It wraps around the palm, drawing a map of lights and dust.
The pockets remain empty, yet full of names that do not dissolve.
When the wind falls silent, a trace remains upon the fingers.
It is not money; it is gentle flame that lights up the void.
And scent remains, to guide time within the hands.