I still smell her, even in my dreams, not the sweet scent of
perfume, the musk of her being, the aroma of her womanhood that rises out of
her like steam, an retractable essence that arouses me and leaves me shaking
even when awake, it is a flavor I follow in the dreamscape as I once did in
waking life, drawn along, up seemingly endless stairs to her layer at the top,
no need to let her hair down for me to climb, I float up each step like a
balloon, inflated by something I cannot and do not want to control, afloat on
the air, pushed this way or that by whatever her whim is, allowed to settle
beside her where her scent is most intense, and I cherish it now many years
later in my dreams
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