A land of salt and pepper

In a land of salt and pepper

Resides the interloper

In a castle of middle-aged stone

Alone

She collects the master’s footsteps

Plucking them from the air with red forceps

She stores them in crystal drops that hang at her ear

The next best thing to him being near

The careless looks he tosses in her direction

Are captured in a moment of reflection

She stores them in a gilt mirror, against her eyes

The look of her savior in disguise

He passes by in a light cloud of cologne

She inhales deeply and makes the perfume her own

Stores it in a tiny stone that decorates her nose

The grand allowance of olfactory prose

Sometimes his elbows brush past her skin when he’s in a hurry

She commits the gossamer path they tread to memory

Stores them on a map, spread across her forehead

Traces them every night in bed

All that is left for her to do is steal a kiss

For the sense of taste is yet amiss

If she is to be from her crucifix unhung

She must have a piece of him against her tongue