The Golden Dress and the Perfume
I had a golden dress.
It was beautiful. It sparkled. It was special to me.
I wanted to play tennis in this golden dress,
But it was so special that I saved it for the championship match.
And I played matches and won many, but lost a good deal too.
And I never made it to the final championship match of a tournament.
So I never wore the golden dress.
Then I had a perfume.
It was floral. It was subtle. It was special to me.
I wanted to have romances wearing this perfume.
But it was so special that I wanted to save it for the man I would marry.
But I had learned the lesson of the golden dress I had once had.
So night after night before I went out,
I sprayed the perfume as if I could never run out,
on my neck and my wrists and the top of my chest.
And I have yet to marry a man or even come close.
But I always smelled like magic.
Now the dress is gone, and the perfume long gone too.
I look back to the past, playing my tennis matches in skirts.
Flirting with men while smelling of that whimsical scent.
I don't know where the dress may be resting at this moment.
Perhaps sparkly, but dim, sprawled on a dirty forgotten floor.
But I know where the perfume went, from my skin to theirs.
Worn on my flesh 'till there wasn't anymore.