Redolence

Woman is a fate I bear too often… and the woman that most recently graced this now lonesome chamber, well, her presence is but a ghost here. She departed so suddenly and left me with trivial objects still resonating to her touch… baubles and trinkets, things that trouble me with her scent. She was a woman of a thousand perfumes; such sweet irony that mere blankets and pillows are now her essence.

Empty wine glasses clutter the table, their edges stamped with the residue of red lips. Small quarries of loose change spread about their feet, along with crumpled receipts, old magazines, and other needless items it is doubtful she will return for. I scan the room with sullen eyes in seek of some worthy bait… some object of value that may coax her to revisit this place at least once more. Instead I find only a ragged shirt of mine that she often borrowed to wear in her sleep… I crumple it to my nostrils and inhale the feminine fragrances of the angel body that once masqueraded in it.

Fragrance fumes from the candles she bought, a reminder that this place is cursed with the photonegative of her presence. The flickering light mocks me as it overtakes from where evening dims and the room transitions into amber shadows, the imprint of lips fading from those glistening wine glasses. The thorn in my fingertip serves as a punishment for taking her for granted, and the bead of blood that follows is surely the opposite of her tears. Her afterglow smells like memories, and candlelight, and lazy days in bed… but to my dismay it does not smell like forgiveness.


- (c) Brandon Gene Petit




Dreams in the Womb


www.bgpetit.com