Writing
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Her Perfume: Tobacolor
A woman's relationship with herself and her perfume is sacred
A ritual and religion
The scent becomes interwoven and intertwined with her body
It becomes part of her presence, her soul
It lingers and grasps, a veil enshrouding her
Her perfume is an extension of herself
Evoking memories of the saccharine past
Of places she has and has not been:
The smoky back rooms of a jazz bar
The lively bazaar in dappled light
The sticky sweet honeycomb she used to drink as a child
It conjures images of mirages
Amber and plum
Something both sweet and spice
Thousands of colors are embraced:
Warm shades of sunlight trickle down through leaves of a great tree
Golden wheat swaying in a warm breeze
Desert sand, hot and burning
Blooming honeysuckle on a summer night
Fires to warm the cold nights
The dew glittering in the early spring sun
Embers of past lovers, glowing and glimmering
When the perfume bottle is shattered in pieces on the ground
The scent does not want to leave her
It overpowers
Becomes unable to be ignored
It is no longer a lingering, gentle reminder
Now it haunts and claws and howls not to be forgotten by the woman
Angry as its golden liquids, the sacredness spilled and useless
The woman weeps and mourns the memories of past and future
Watching the honeyed, amber liquid seep into the floor
Who is she without her perfume?
She welcomes the ghost of her perfume
There is a reason to cry over a broken bottle of perfume
Tobacco and spice
Amber and sweetness permeate the air
One last, long hug embraced
Between the woman and her beloved perfume
Before it slips far away
Beyond reach.