He wanted me to smell like flowers. It was a strong bouquet, a scent which he had bought for another woman. The scent gave him the privilege of controlling the last piece of me that was my own within the strange hypersexualized world we had created for ourselves. It gave me a headache. Taking away not only the scent of me, but my senses as well.
Thoughts blurred by pain, physical and emotional. Thoughts freed by pleasure, physical and emotional.
We lost ourselves in our roles. Minutes, hours, seconds. Seconds became an eternity and time seemed to move at its own pace and last forever before moving forward. In those moments where I smelled like flowers I could be everything and nothing.
These moments ended, by the woman for whom the scent was purchased. The one who was enough to loves in another, more tangible way. The one that gives birth to a new life, even though it wasn’t the right time, it as her he wanted. The girls who preferred flowers to musk. She who had long hair and always remembered her lipstick.
I was never me he wanted. It was what I gave him that made him stop and crave, but not me, never for me. I learned these things in the months that followed, when my scent was once again my own, yet my thoughts had yet to return. Hijacked by the lingering of flowers on the breeze.
I gave him more than my body in those hours spent in his room. While we hid from the world I gave him pieces of me that I had longed to shed, but had not known I needed to lose. And in a way, he did the same.
I do not know where he is now. I couldn’t say if he is in her arms, or if he will be in mine again. I don’t know what I mean to him, or what he truly means to me. I just know that he would want me to smell like flowers.