The skyline glows, like low stars.
Streams of cars, shine like rivers.
In the wind, there’s a scent,
Of perfume… of a concept.
On the streets, a man’s feet steps.
His lungs are filled, with her scent.
In his mind, she’s a living painting,
An unknown, modeling ‘her’ fragrance.
Into a store, his footsteps.
The a/c’s perfume takes his breath.
He walks the aisles, like the streets.
Stumbling at women,
Smelling, their vicinity.
Out the door, her footsteps,
Onto the streets of New York.
She has brown eyes and blond hair,
And a naked finger to go with,
The theme of the perfume, she wears.
In the wind, she leaves its scent,
Her perfume … and its concept.