Nakedly bottled.
Capturing bursting seasons
here and now.

Life, delicate in its notes,  
the top notes,
lithe as youth,
citrus and bloom,  
ever briefly,
recondite pleasure,
a suppliance of time
a rush that fades away.  

Heart notes,
the flesh of our days, unfold—  
warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath.

In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk.  

Sultry as the scent may have lingered,
flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair
the base notes come,
the earthier tones,  
amber and resin,
heavier on the air,  
decays a final wisp
until faint on the skin.

A memory is born.

You smell like pure warmth, sweet and heady, like a muggy summer night just after a heavy rainfall; earthy. A wet cedar, woody scent with an undertone of citrus. You smell of home, a sheltered blanket of safety.

I have been peeled
the ripest of my juices trickle
between cracks within the fold.
held up by the hands of affronted lust
and weighed beneath twin peaks
not crafted by I
but molded for the other;
a single mirage
reflects itself onto many surfaces,
in which they have been ****** upon

Don’t let the strong citrus scent,
Leaves you stepping back,
Come forth instead,
And welcome to the Tangerine Wonderland,
Where the orange colour stretches,
To far back,
Complimented by its fellow citrus friends,
For yellow, orange, and green,
Are the feelings,
My heart screams,
When I’m with you.

Our saving grace
now leaves me with a perplexing taste of hiraeth in my mouth
In our moment of need, we clung to it
although simple
and dashingly ordinary
we wouldn't be here without it
but now that it inches toward its inevitable end
I am filled with bitter nostalgia
one of empty promises
for even when our season was ending
I cared for you nonetheless
I clung to your ruminating sweet taste
for even when your newfound thorns engulfed me
I held on
watering jug in hand
and laid my eyes on your grand opulent tree
just as fondly as before

Now we are back in season
but my hands have grown rough and weary from the thorns of yesterday
your once dulcet taste
repulses me
for the taste of my blood is surprisingly pungent.

I'm am utterly abashed
I so badly want to be filled with fury
but I cannot
as you always
and forever
will be my sweet evanescent orange
not yellow
even though some may think
because yellow is simple
easy some might even say
orange is rough and allusive
it is filled with a desire so pure
hidden between many layers of said skin
passionate
intense
stubborn
but also soft
and dulcet
not pliable in any way shape or form

Orange queries
she asks
"why"
why?
because I fell in love with you
and then I fell in love with life
before it was dull
to mask the bitter
but citrus is not bitter,
even out of season
it is bittersweet.

So I pray you won't break your promise a second time
because this time
I cannot follow you
because now I find myself relishing the bittersweet of life that rests on my tongue.

With, or without your grace.

Gentle rain storms heighten
the scent of lilac bushes lining the fence
anticipating perennials
lively from the dampness and the sun
when days stay dry
carrying a bucket of water in one hand
walking barefoot to hydrate them
meanwhile
sunshine fruits
are being morphed into juice
behind the silk curtains
I see the wrinkled hands
firmly holding fruit peels
covered in shiny liquid
rays focus on her hands just right
this view
dripping
in citrine shades.