Today I came across your fragrance, your scent,
for the first time in years, and I thought of your pale
skin, your *******, lips, the yielding of your body.

I always assumed it was lotion you wore, as if the scent
and the allure were unintentional, not a purposefully
and seductively placed essence, but simply your scent,
carried so appropriately upon the spring breeze.

Why don't I smell it more often? I wish I could. I don't
even know where it came from this time - some woman
on the street, or wafting hauntingly from a vendor's
cache of perfumes, or through the doorway of Macy's?

The memories struck me like a dull arrow straight
to the heart - I turned but you weren't there, nor did
your scent last for more than a few precious seconds.
It was there and then it was gone, just like you were.

I've obviously never gotten over you  - you continue
to linger in that special niche in my memories, waiting
for the occasion to leap sweetly back into my conscious.

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