Lilac, lavender,
Cigarettes, cinnamon,
Deodorant and aftershave -
The tropes of one's lovers' scents.
I'm not good with scents.
But I know,
My lover does not smell of flowers
Or poisons, or spices,
Or scented oilsprays.
I'm not good with scents.
But I know,
My lover smells like
Herself,
Every bit herself,
Skin and bones,
Sweat and breaths,
Her scent is the oceanspray falling onto the snowflakes tumbling down the branches of a gentle larch tree,
Her scent is a stray drifting feather settling on a cricket chirping against the echo of a raging waterfall.
Her scent is every bit impossible
And every bit un-graspable by nouns and adjectives,
Yet her scent is every bit human,
Sweet and salty,
Bitter and sour,
Struggles and saddness,
Hopes and dreams,
Goodness and aspirations and all the niceties combined –
But I don't know.
I'm not very good with scents, you see.
A/n
It's 2 at night and I'm high af (on the night, kids, sheesh!) so I have no idea how this poem sounds lol, or what I've written for that matter, lol.
