You snipped you brown locks
off your twisted head.
Now chained to another princess’s bed.

Your affection is like the smell
of chlorine on a rusty day.
Do I want it to leave or stay?

You made the white flowers
grow within me.
Now go ahead and sip the tea.

My body and soul
can't be threatened by your stare.
Our feelings need a wheelchair.

In the dead of night
Apart but awake
You working, me waiting
Avoiding a sleep, I did not want to take
Conversation so rich and open
Startling so, so early on
Every text, every secret, every want, every fear
Laid bare on a screen, before the rising sun

And rise it did, but I shot my shot
And reply in kind you did indeed
After spending the night caring for others
Here you for, doing it for me

Sleeping through the morning hours
I hold you close, locked tight in kind

The scent of a rose garden, drenched in the sun
Small and secluded, private and peaceful
A single tree, providing shade
And that luscious smell, irresistible and easeful

Awake we did, a few hours later
And we lay there for more, before I could wait no more
Locked in a kiss neither wished to break
Hands moving, bodies swaying, why did I wait before
So naturally we moved
Like we’d known each for years
Confidence you exuded
But no arrogance to be feared

A long night
A wonderful morning
An afternoon to remember
Our next time is calling

"They" say the sense of smell is closely linked with memory
I never know how else to say where I get that--
Does Eva Green playing an epidemiologist in "Perfect Sense" count?
Probably not, but there is confirmation
in the smell of coffee each morning
My dad made coffee in an old drip-brew;
My mom makes coffee in a French press
I assume my dad still uses a drip brew--
it's the one he used the last time I visited him
That smell brings back family memories, when
everything seemed good
everything seemed whole
the pieces all fit, and there were no cracks
even though I know now it was just a facade
and couldn't last, and it leaves an ugly aftertaste
Like bitter coffee from an old drip-brew

If you put an open book on your face and breathe in the softness of the pages,
And your cheeks feel the heaviness of the words pressed against them:
You will absorb all the knowledge inside of the book
And the story will sink into your skin, like warmth after a long day in the sun.

If your pyjamas smell like the sun,
They have disappeared into the back of your wardrobe
And gone back home when you were asleep
Returning when the sun peeks in through the lines in your walls.

If it is late in the morning
Then the morning loves you and your sleepy face
and the quietness of your thoughts as you wake.

"Stop and smell the roses" is an ironic cliché,
cause when doing so literally, it is strange?

I have my favorite smells
Each filled with sentiment
Or the sensation of joy
I can smell them everyday
and go on without interruption
But the smell
that always catches my attention
Is your smell
You don't know it
But your scent is always in my perception
Your cologne
The shampoo you use
Whatever lotion you use
I can smell it
and suddenly the memories come washing over
I can smell you
and only think about you
with nothing else on my mind
until the smell goes away
in some cases it can be gone within seconds or minutes
But sometimes it lingers
and sometimes I wish it never leaves