If only poets could also be perfumers, imagine
the wonders they could bottle (as I am no poet,
forgive this concoction, but I couldn't resist).
It smells like our love, give it a whiff.

Those top notes you smell? Scales of butterfly wings
and paper, new guitar strings and pollia
berry. You can catch a slight odor of your
much-hated fish fins (I swore you were a child of the ocean).

It gets deeper at the heart, excuse my pun and
irony (your heart turned out more shallow than my
bathroom sink).

Here tequila meets *****, the night bleeds into
day. An orchid on the verge of rot, a mouthful
of condensed milk and tears to kiss away the
growing, gaping ****.

Only near the end notes does this spell truly
break (so forgive the “midnight” reference I put in the formula).
When you smell the crushed angel wings and
blood-soaked, shattered
chandelier, a paprika heart beating wildly,
remember the smell of bruises and nightmares.

I trust you need no recipe to recreate
this masterpiece but not in the same proportion,
bottle, ways; I refuse to be your donor of raw
human juices.

The tap has run dry.
Now it leaves just you and I.
Where visions in the mind appear,
we don't say them for fear
of hurting the other.

Life being just another
person in the web of love.
When you look up at the stars above
think of me
as I do think of thee.