Phantom citrus notes, run a silken ribbon of moss green, lost beneath a velveteen chaise, a knot impervious to hands, slipped from her hair in deep slumber, a memory, masquerading as a snake in dusted umbra tomb, where sun streaming on the oak floor, will never cast warmth, never reignite the woody undertones, of her favorite perfume, giving away its inconspicuous resting place, that the walls whisper of when the windows are open, the curtains masking their gossip as a breeze of honeysuckle, the mirror in the foyer jealous, of the wonder it never beheld, the dream that let free her hair

E.A. O'Connell. December 2018