I tripped and fell and grazed my knee.
You rushed to pick me up and …
… you smelt of pomegranate juice
thus, ever since …
… you’ve haunted me.
A wave of gold in wheaten fields.
Such songs unsung in pregnant seas
disorientate; so alas, I seem to Be
thus. Sorry, that ever since I smelt you …
… you’ve haunted me.
If only you had left me lying, unlovingly
and walked on by, afar you see …
… scented not like pomegranate
then, ever since then …
… you’d have not that sweet haunt on me.