Flashback Poetry: My Heart's Concussion

I apply a woman's smell
to everything I touch:
The aroma of the winter goddess
and bright, chocolate
February winds.

I clothe myself
in control and ---, 

an awesome holiday
for the lips and flesh.

But emotional technology I ignore,
the extra romance
of tears and cleansing.

You are my non-qualified vacation,

an eclipse of my mental touch,

the threat of nightmares in the sea of discontent,

and the inappropriate paid observer.

But yet,

as the glass sunset beacons me

from beyond my common wax mind,

in the clouds, I find my path

just tangent to the darkest hour.