Clad in your tatty old sweater
embraced in your woody, spicy fragrance
perched precariously on the crescent moon of past
I balance the glass of golden fire on my palm
bringing memories of oaky, peaty, smoky muskiness on your breath
I inhale sharply
the wispy whiff that wafts in
burns my throat with remembered bittersweetness
I taste the sweetness of brackish tears on my lips
my heart is awash with sharp, tingly feel
I can smell warm, sticky blood.
Written for dVerse poetics. Our guest host today, Jo aka Worms, has asked us to write a poem of scents.