Poetry: Perfume

I haven't done much writing recently, but more reading actually, Beckett's Molloy that is. It's never easy to be fully attentive to monologue, but in this case, I haven't intended to drop the book yet. My brief foreword for this piece is: in celebration of lost love.


Let the perfume touch me

As it always wants to

But it's my bare hand that holds it

A bottle filled with smelly liquid.


It's not you who approaches me

(Have you ever wanted to?)

But it's the cursed nature of physics

Busying itself with a sorrowful fool.