she was like
a sweet perfume
soft at first
with subtle notes of
melancholy
woven into hazel and
streaks of daffodil

the part that finds
sadness in beauty
and beauty in
tragedy

draw closer and
her fragrance becomes
stronger

but with a frailty
like paper
that cannot be pulled apart

and she longs to be written upon
tattooed by a hand
from a heart whose
blood never runs cold

and though she may linger
a while on their skin
like a little perfumed card
tucked away in their pocket

she fades

only to return as a
hint of a memory
in the waft of a passing stranger
or the nape of another

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