His Was Honey


For him.


At first our night was violet in its scent,
As cool as sunset. By then, the fragrance met
With syrups, elderflower; we tasted luck.
Seduced, we hunted down a trail of streetlights,
Led past late-blooming crests of blossom air
Which rustled on the walk’s touch, home. The coat
Was soft and warm with us, close as his hand.
Aroma of rain on pavements, dashing back
Through impatience, there, lungs rich with it,
Chasing chance. Soon everything was golden,
Was lost in cotton, his hair and scent of sleep:
I dreamt of colours, felt the sweetness dwell;
And through the tender morning, his skin was honey.


The most evocative sense. Even the pillow remembers him, by his sleeping scent. He truly is like honey. 


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