I chose you out of twenty-five

Perfumes that could nary contrive

To woo me with their packaging

Or any other marketing.

 

For weeks you lived in a vial,

Evaporating for a while.

I finally worked up the nerve

To wear you on my skin to work.

 

The whole day, I smelled very pink

Like an artificial rose drink.

I marveled at how you remained,

Throughout the day, mostly the same.

 

By evening, though, you had changed—

From true rose was I now estranged.

None could I sense but rose oxide;

Oderose, what have you connived?