perfume. the vehement whiff of a bus stranger in the spot to your left. the scent eluding of picking flowers backwards till “he loves me back.” it’s okay, i once believed an overpriced bottle of infused liquid and the rash from imitating the blooms cut away in a sixth floor window box. the daisies crammed besides rows of empty blinds. the count of pretty things. a newborn’s rosy cheek. distinctively me pretty. sinking in a vase like a person. the girl across the aisle with thick eyeliner and a smile apprehends my sedentary meadow.