Incense of Need
Inebriated by fresh smell
of every new dream,
scent lingers as its wafts
softly past my senses,
sensual memories adopted
from the strength of the sun.
Love’s chemistry embellishes
like night blooming jasmine
clinging to perfumed folds,
slipping into your essence.
Balm of orange wine sunsets
tucked under my pillow
as I breath fibers of you
in pink petal skin.
Your bouquet leans
on my heart
until I let it in.
Hunger arises
at musky scent
of dark chocolate,
freshly laundered sheets
and sweet ozone rain.
Touched emotions
awaken my spring,
sweet potion of locked bodies
awakens incense of need.
Scent
When I trigger a certain shy smile out of her, what follows is a cascading of subtle events.
She lightly perspires. Perhaps to cool her sudden heat, perhaps to lift her scent from her flesh.
A floral perfume, mixed with her own oil. An intoxication.
She subconsciously gets closer. I take another breath, my mouth waters, my own heat rises.
We touch, a calm before an inevitable storm. She smiles again. The process intensifies.
She turns shyer when she smells her own musk, hating it. Her silent tell of desire.
I crave it, it tips me over desire's, sweet edge.
Nothing to Something
I barely have a sense of smell. I don’t notice a fart. I don’t notice the aroma of dinner dancing through the kitchen. I can barely smell a candle under my nose. When I do catch a scent, when I notice a smell, it makes it exceptional. The sudden juxtaposition startles me, from having nearly no smell, to having a powerful sensation. A bad smell can have me running for the hills, but a good smell? I cherish the source, yearning to have it, whatever it is. I want to keep it close, to possess what is forbidden to me.
Redolence
Passion creates
Its own scent
Hot and salty
Tinged with the
Essence
Of the club
At which you’ve been
Or the foods
That you’ve consumed
Heightened in the moment
So that it
Overwhelms
The other senses
Creating lust
And hunger
And a primal need
For two
To act as one
To smell such a scent
Is to recognize
The power of the drive
Within us all
To yield the
Supple flesh
To base desires
The willingness
To forfeit self
For pleasure
And fulfillment
That will eventually
Ebb but then
Rise again
The cycle
Of want
And need
In future present
Wild Poppies
Disembarking the train, I approached her with such urgency
sweeping her in my arms, burying my face in her neck.
Her fragrance, Wild Poppies, filled my senses and stirred desires,
She knew it would drive me crazy.
She drove us back to her apartment, stripping clothes as we climbed the stairs
With my pants around my legs, I reached up for her waist and pulled her pants, panties down in a full swoop.
I filled my senses with her scent of Wild Poppies and sex, lips and tongue lingering on her round, wide hips before parting legs, aching for her...
Every Time
sharp spicy scent of ashen cigarettes
smoked down to the filter and flicked
discarded like my heart
reminds me every time
the aroma passes me by
permeating perfume of those yellowed fingers
smoky blonde hair and her unwashed jacket
coveted like I wished to be
reminds me why
our love faded away
warming wistful wonderful whiff
fills my heart, makes me yearn
for long lost days
reminds me why
our love faded away
faint fulfilling fragrance of ashen cigarettes
rolling papers and sticky tobacco
held on to for life, unlike me
reminds me every time
the aroma passes me by
Sweat
As I stroke and caress his chiseled body, his skin starts to glisten, and soon he is glazed in a patina of sweat. I take in a luxurious breath and feel the aroma he emanates flood my body, stimulating my senses. His virility is contagious. Evincing hints of everything I savor - café au lait, crème brûlée, fleur de sel, just to name a few - the aphrodisiac amalgamation overwhelms my consciousness momentarily, and I escape into a world where I float on the intoxicating vapors of my man's essence. I can feel his pheromones tickle my mind into oblivion.
Yeah, No
I take a deep breath in. My heart races and I can hear my blood rushing through my body. With every heart thump, he gets one step closer. He wraps his arms around my waist and that's when the first whiff hits my nostrils. The odor of boy sweat and his piney cologne, the smell that hits me every time he hugs me. However this time it is different, more sweat less pine. The smell becomes overpoweringly strong and my nostrils begin to burn, the burning moves down my throat and into my lungs. I cough and my heart slows.
Desire
Tequila...
Margarita's tonight.
The smell burns my nose, He says it burns his throat.
Shake. Shake. Shake.
I run and hide.
Close my eyes tight.
Maybe he won't find me.
Maybe I'll be safe tonight.
Too many margarita's.
Too many times.
I leave and start new.
Whiskey.
Bourbon and Scotch.
The smoky scent
Reminds me of campfire
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Swirl it around the rocks.
They tumble like boulders.
Like we do into bed.
Tender, but strong.
No need for sweet mixes
To cover the flavors.
No need for facades.
Or masks in public.
Whiskey is as pure as love.
Why does nostalgia taste so bad??
One might think that lemon cookies are straight-forward, that either one wants them, or one does not.
One would be wrong.
Lemon cookies make me think of home.
I always ate lemon cookies in my room, curled up on the floor, working on homework.
When I smell them, I hear, as though off in the distance, the Van Morrison CD I played on loop, I feel the floor beneath my fingers, the smoothness of algebra running through my brain, I hear the rain dripping on the roof.
I love all these things, but I still hate how lemon cookies taste.