The Scent of Butter

You smell like butter.
From a distance it reaches me—
each time a droplet frees itself
from your forehead,
slides mischievously along your cheeks
and falls, released, into the hollow
between your neck and collarbone.

Instead of repelling me,
as so often happens with women
who hide a clove of garlic
deep inside their cheek
to ward off evil spirits,

no—your margarine-scent
is creamy and different.
It steams toward me with desire,
inviting…
sending my mind spinning.

It is you
who comes to make
my dreams come true,
shaking me awake
from a lethargic sleep.

You—who lived a dazed existence,
submerged in litres
of Arrogant Frog Toasty & Buttery Chardonnay,

letting the pain
that almost soured your life
now become part
of a classic vinaigrette—
but this time with an olive
between your lips.

I smell the kitchen in you.
I smell the continents
that have shaped you into one whole.

I smell the butter simmering
across your skin,
quietly telling me
that the moment has come:
it’s now or never.

Charlton G. Marcos (12-12-2025)