I shut my eyes and wait till you draw near,
My senses vie for auras you’ll dispense;
I do not feel for pulse or strain to hear,
Your first trace comes, as always, from a scent.
Just now an almond air breathes to my face
With trace of mace and aloe tint discrete;
Your glow is garnished ginger interlaced
With atoms from pomanders tart and sweet.
Then musky lust intoxicates like mead,
Your cayenne bite spurs urges to the breach;
Wild spikenard ushers pestled cumin seed
That bathes the tender nub on cloven peach.
I lick the sweat that sheens your cinnamon skin
This tactile taste supplants the scents within.