PERFUME

PERFUME

She gathered rose petals at dawn,
soft as the blush upon her face,
and placed them in a glass bottle
with patience, love, and grace.

She added water, drop by drop,
and waited through the days,
until the roses gave their heart
and filled the bottle’s space.

He watched her make that perfume,
her hands so young and small,
and promised he would know its scent
wherever life might call.

The years moved on like quiet rain,
through summer, winter, spring.
They shared their joys, and their grief,
they lost and found everything.

The roses faded long ago,
the bottle’s glass grew dim,
but she had kept that little scent
because it came from him.

Now silver touched her gentle hair,
and time had softened her.
She held the bottle to her wrist,
the same one he once stirred.

He leaned toward her, slowly now,
his eyes still warm and bright,
and breathed the fragrance from her skin
as if returning to the night.

For one sweet moment, they were young—
beneath the rose-tree shade,
with all the promises of love
still waiting to be made.

No words were needed between them,
no memories to explain.
The perfume carried all their years
and brought them back again.

She smiled and held his trembling hand;
he kissed her wrist with care.
The roses had become a lifetime,
and love was still there.

Because perfume never truly fades
when made with love so deep.
It lives inside the hearts of two
and wakes what time puts to sleep.