Turning, her warmth produced some faintly-echoed trance
Trailed by the memory of closeness faded.
Her callousness rustles lifting off the brazen chair,
Back, arms bowlike in curled baroque imposture:
Starch fabric unflushing along the dead-petalled floor
She moves, in lavender disgust, stiff steps
Treading, cracking dried rose skin underfoot
Whilst holding high drifting hopes of dignity
Unsalvageable as an intended apology.
Oil, pinkish in silence, slept in its bottle,
Scent frozen, her moment elapsing, trapped
In its glass windpipe. Unsaid, the bulbous defiance
Is abandoned to dissipate through want of passion,
Conveyed by her dispassionate, gazing coldness
Past a plentitude of aromatic recollections
Not once thought fragrant.
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