ff

I stick my hand into the abyss of the cabinet

An assortment of half-empty jars and glass bottles Dusted in powdered rouge and foundation

Preserved in my naïve attempts to look older than I was

These days I’ve made it a habit to throw on perfume To hastily cover up my exhaustion Nightmare scars and decaying breath Haunting me through the morning

I snag a sample sized vial from the top of the pile Thin enough to fit between fingers like a cigarette And spritz it before the scent catches up to me As I’m in a hurry to make the train

In seconds it blossoms like Amber and crimson on October leaves And the ache that lingered like morning fog Drowns me once again

I don’t have to check the bottle English Pear and Freesia

A slightly musky, androgynous scent With a luxurious undertone I can’t quite place

Maybe that’s why it was your favorite Maybe that’s why it burns

An explosion of scent that floods my senses

Until all I want is to scratch it off my skin

And maybe that’s why I wear Florence instead

A cascade of jasmine droplets in the hopes Spring will come a bit earlier this year

And that my heart won’t linger too long in the cold