For the mere scent of a gardenia.
No man attached.
No plan attached.
She just up and left.
For her body could no longer bear
Winter or tights
Or the all too infrequent and oddly jagged dance of the Western world.
Even lilac wine could not keep her here.
Unabashedly seeped in perfume and sweat and dirt.
Air too full to move.
What will become of her?