I'm still obsessed with how you feel,
The touch you left, the scent so real.
Your perfume haunts the midnight air,
A ghost that whispers everywhere.
It clings to me, though you are gone,
A fragrance that I dwell upon.
Your fingertips, they grazed my skin,
And left a fire that burns within.
I try to shake the thought of you,
But everything smells like you do.
Your touch, your scent, they intertwine,
A memory I can't define.
I'm lost in what you left behind,
Your essence tangled in my mind.
Your perfume lingers, soft and sweet—
A trace of you I can't delete.
YOU ARE READING
She's antiromantique
PoetryShe was heartbroken, instead of the revenge she wrote, she wrote like no one else ever did, every feeling, every sense of discomfort, every thought, was written down, in every book corner, every piece of paper, every napkin, knowing that all of them...
