The perfume she wears on Sundays

Time--
gnawing bits of her scarce joys,
chipping away at her appetite for light and hope,
scraping her element,
peeling her essence, layer by layer,
eroding her zest for life.
 
On really bad days, time
plunders, butchers,
forces itself on her,
gets away clean,
until what is left of her
is a mere shadow.
 
Sometimes,
I stand at a street corner
to take in a whiff
of that special perfume she wears on Sundays,
or to catch a glimpse of her wearied smile
that still warms my heart.
 
Sometimes,
I wait there,
with roses in my hand,
roses of the deepest red, I told the florist.
 
My knees tremble,
my throat runs dry,
as I struggle to summon the courage
to reclaim the grown-up girl
I still call my first love.