Divorced Men

An unrequited love poem to a man of tweed perfection.

I miss you 
You always smelled like flowers 
Like a woman 
I wanted that scent 
so I could breathe it in every day and feel you 
picture you 
put in on and become you 
I still want to become you 
You're perfect 
Your dirty blond hair 
Your moon-shaped glasses 
Your shoulder bag 
Your salads 
Your smile 
Your quick wit  
Those rebellious ears that stick out 
Just like you do 
In a crowd 
The freckles and tiny hairs on your arms 
Your slim fingers 
So perfect 
So immaculate 
So precise 
Your forest green cardigans and white dress shirts 
Your tweed jacket and pants 
Your ancient blackberry 
Your voice 
Smooth as milk and honey 
Your exercises 
Your books 
Your mind 

Your ring 
Which you no longer wear 
What do divorced men do with their rings? 
Do they make love to them?