“A woman’s perfume tells more about her than her handwriting.”~Christian Dior

“She lingers”, he said

Something about her,

An unfamiliar familiarity to her;

He couldn’t grasp what was it.

He barely saw her face.

But there was she,

This figure, this form,

An alien creature,

To his known existence.

She lingers, he says.

Like the scent of a musk rose

Or was it lavender;

Like a delicate peony even

She lingered on and on.

A woman with no face

A figure he couldn’t shake

Just a scent he couldn’t fathom

Would leave such an imprint.

The allure to her was not in her face

Or the way she was

It was in the scent she carried

Leaving heads hazy

A bloomed flower with no name

She lingered away

Like perfume ,

Hers was a scent

That left him dazed.



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