Inhaling You

In a world of manufactured fragrance
where whiffs on wafts are senseless bludgeoneers;
with the irony of modern roses
which tease, but fail the nose to gratify;
how will I know you except in morning—
before matted strands makeover to pure,
or Irish Spring® pools in shallow hollows,
and Rain® becomes too many’s aura-scent—
when odor of pungent perspiration,
aromatic oils from once turgid pores,
and liquifaction of spent arousal
spilling forth from your urn of unguent stores,
make, for one, a woman more to savor.
Grant me an eve to create this flavor.