“Mon âme voyage sur le parfum comme l’âme des autres hommes sur la musique.”
I knew in advance that that Baudelaire prose poem
would surely remind me of you
––and how would it not?––
but then I saw you in grey and pink
and before I knew it my eyes were closed
and my world became nothing
but the soft happy weight around my neck,
legs half settling on my wrists
half searching for themselves
secured around my trunk,
and that poem
exactly as it was written
[although there were no words while it happened]
was all there was to see and smell and feel.
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 
<3
=]