Dear Versace Confessor,
The ocean waves cream against shores as I write this.
A lone heron walks, scavenging the chest of the seaboard. Pick, pick, pick, nibble. Its motion hums the notes of your absence on my heart. Pick, pick, pick, nibble. The briny summer sea brings in wafts of your Versace fragrance, the scent of which hints at our long days by the water. Naked soles embedded in the silk sand, naked souls embedded in each other. Your cologne’s top notes of bitter bergamot and rosewood would give way to my heart of sage and cedar.
But your base notes of amber and musk, and hints of tobacco spattered with sycamore and saffron, always seemed to drift. Love was something that created an everyday scent we carried, which harbored strength, solace, and confidence in nearly every situation, from work to a walk on the beach.
Love was not a confession, it was what we carried unsaid between us. The heron has had its full and flies away.
But I am left empty with your Versace aroma left
hanging in the air. Why did you leave it behind?
Did you intend it to be your confession?-
You are my heart's 'bespoke' choice,
my heart is an exorbitant fashion-house,
which only houses specialities,
YOU being one of them....
there might be the Versaces, Nikes, Guccis, Chanels, Louis Vuittons, Hermes,Diors, Prada, Armani, D&Gs, Ralph Laurens, Nikes, Salvatore Ferragamos... they have price tags;but,
you are my invaluable yet, conspicuous possession!
You are an attire created by God,
a divine creation has no pucuniary -tag.....
I love your warmth,
I love your smell,
I love your feel..
You are my peignoir, my sweatshirt, my windcheater,
my blazer.....
You are my favourite attire....-
Eve's Thought
(The Ravishing Reign)
Undo your hair, don't put on the make-up,
Take off the star-studded Versace,
Strum my skin like Liberace,
In stark dark, shake the senses up.
Don't take a single shower,
Under thy aged reign,
Lemme be a coward to cower,
And feel all pleasure in pain.
Ah, that mystic mess,
Ain't no annasach;
It has a heavenly finesse,
Be in the groove as such.
A reverie, say just a notion,
Ain't less than real passion.-