
By Ava Staunton
Enchanted flask of floral memories and allusive shadows. Parfum punctuates the French boardwalk, a butterfly’s dance spinning and circulating in knotted bliss. Dusty rose pastels paint over the autumn auditorium. Grazing our olfactory sensibilities to ignite thousands of tender thoughts. Rippling through our secret garden of Eden. A cerebral marriage of heady and ineffable scents. A parfumerie composed of the wanders of the world. Phantoms of the past promenading through lilac mist. Drifting through the weeping willows at the river to caress tendrils of your hair. The soft song of birds and piano notes fluctuate with each breath in. Chalice of sweetened wine, the scent of mountain flowers pressed by the monks. The thrill of a new sensation. Cherubic cheeks flushed with pink from the first taste. Parfum L’etoiles, a Galatia of cosmos. Sieved through the powdered air, a sprinkling of star dust for dreaming. French fragrances of the white flower of narcissus encapsulate a musky silhouette. Woody rain configuring with the sweet chrysanthemums under our breath. Rose petals illuminate the pink blushed walls of French dollhouses dotted across the city.
Vanilla-laced air of the pâtisserie below the window sifts through the lace curtains. L’amour à la Mer – the femme fatale perched upon Parisian shutters, tucked away in a timid corner of a fruitful city. A punch of citrus from French lemon tarts and Clementines. Lavender linen sifts through her daydreams. Nymphs with baby-breath crowns roam freely through romantic afflictions. Floral notes as sweet as sugar plumbs. Minnie Riperton’s avant-garde Come To My Garden. A real-life singing bird. Meddling meditations in the gardenia, picking posies for every wish. Forget-me-notes frolic through a field of sacred memory.

Baudelaire bottled into a glass vial. Jazz notes pour out of of amber speckled with tobacco. Diffusing temptingly across the other side of the room to the rhythm of saxophone blues. The solitary girl smoking at the café – Cléo from 5 to 7. Haunting the streets with her speckled memory and beauty. Goddard persona with jet-black eyes and an essence of “Je ne sais quoi.” Petals and passion rolling across perspiring skin. Massaging patchouli upon bare wrists and upon the back of the neck. A kiss behind the ear, carrying a whisper like a Margo Guryan love song. A scented dove on a journey to deliver a message. Cherubs and Cupids, biblical angels culminating around our heads.
Piano notes annotate our promenade across the park.
Water lilies record the spectre of last spring.
Feathered with music and perfume.