This old perfume

in the creamy curvaceous bottle

looks and smells

like a bride

filled with hope

lust, wonder

and security,

its blanketing grace

cloaking chilled shoulders

with protective serenity.

 

Cinnamon, clove,

crimson red rose,

sage and sensuality

provides transport

to the misty day when

dense clouds loomed

smokey and thick

in fifty degree

late September skies,

parting only

for that abracadabra moment

when relentless rains stop

and the bride floats out

upon a lungful of

At Last,

filling the air

with sunshine

and bullshit.

 

Bitterness can’t help

bleeding through to memories,

 

doing them injustice

 

because I deserve them-

pure, and beautiful memories-

unscathed by future seepage

through time’s layers,

whispering bitter words

into the bride’s ears,

 

whispering things

she already knew

deeply and painfully,

but chose to ignore

for the sake of happiness,

maybe. Just this once.

Happiness,

unadulterated and entirely lovely.

 

(Trembling hands

transfer shivers

to the giggly bouquet,

ferns wiggling,

autumn berries bobbing,

lilies sprinkling

a dusting

of orange pollen

into the wind,

exaggerated nerves

filling the air with “Amour”

and damned if this

isn’t exactly what love

smells like)

 

Renee Novosel

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Copyright 2014