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.