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?