Blue Bottle On the Left

Trapped, in the blue perfume bottle over the sink, is the first time I met you. It sits there in scent with nothing to prove. No longer made, these moments. You could maybe import them from France, or Germany, but you'd be taking a chance at a replica. First encounters are too precious not to be bottled, don't you think? For in that moment, the air grows heavy It clings to freshly washed hair and wrists of pheromones It solidifies, compacts the pressure 'till eyes meet and looks of guarded wonder are exchanged. Compliments trade air and remain to be plucked and garnished behind ears of victors. The first time I met you, we sat inches apart and yet I felt your very touch Electric scent to be bottled right then and there. But what if you don't know it when you feel, sense, see it? Will you lose it? Perhaps. But I've always been on the look out for a new memory. Your's was just waiting to be bottled, blue and glass Less a replica then any other I've encountered never to turn sour at the wrists or wane but forever yet, encapsulated, bottled to remain.