Casually you walked
into my orderly life,
and carved your name
across my memories.

Stubbornly your scent of sage,
cinnamon, and leather
clings to my susceptible senses,
holding my rationality captive.

Clearly, everything about you
is a descent into regression,
and obviously, a path
my treacherous heart craves.


© november child
Photo credit: Original by Joanna Burn via flickr