Milk and Jasmine
The smell of milky jasmine.
Gardens and elegant ladies.
Pale flowers and dark vines,
Black hair and pale skin
Memories of walking through them,
scents mingling and swirling around me;
memories of my mother.
Silk robes and paper screens,
Lilting music and swirling fans.
The rare times when she embraced me,
her hair smelling of delicate jasmine
announcing her graceful presence;
the milky scent that marked me as hers.
I smell it again:
such a long time has passed
since those childhood days.
I smell it through the heavy waxy leaves,
through all the other heavy smells;
the jasmine cutting through,
the milk shyly clinging behind.
I breathe it in,
the jasmine slightly sweeter
the milk stronger.
It not that of my mother's but
I- I-
I love it.
I love it's sweetness, it's smoothness through my nose,
the memories it brings.
But most of all
I love her.
Willed and strong hearted,
so different from my mother.
Though she loves me
unconditional too.
And I love her too
more than anything.
The scent of it in my mouth,
so glorious,
it's sweetness
how it travels down my tongue.
I delight in it,
my sense longing
for a touch,
a taste,
a sight of whom it belongs to.
To see her,
to touch her,
to hear her voice
and to taste her on my tongue.
To only breathe in air that is
touched by her scent,
to be surrounded, engulfed by her.
To be with her forever.