I top off my perfume bottles with
nice, Irish whisky.
with the smoke of libraries on fire.
Because I think,
if I can flood your lungs
with a loose buzz, the kind that creeps up
through sweetened veins to excite slender cheek-bones
with rose water and vigor
respectively, you’ll come to crave that warmth I incite.
If I’m able to
envelop your airways
and ear-ways with the effervescence of
burning histories and smoldering fantasies and flickering ideas
then of course,
You’d have no choice but to sit underneath the ashen hail
and allow your back-breaking breaths
to kindle that new fervor
for all the words and stories and authorities
I would profess to you
that carry across,
the gentle breeze