Miss Dior (was what I wore)

This sting
is the bittersweet ring of orange,
cinnamon, myrrh, all
things that purr with the pain of love in
loss, all syrups that gloss the matt fact of
lack, all strains of sublime in the
grind.
And while I wind
between its fingers, sing
with the hymn of its
whim, the bittersweet scent is all that
lingers, in bittersweet memory of
him.