O Aventus, My Tender Ghost

A haunting ode to loss, grief, and the fragile beauty found in broken things.

O Aventus, my tender ghost in glass,
My calm between storms, my private grace.
How cruelly you died today,
Splintered upon the cold, unfeeling floor.
Your soul rose in sweet rebellion,
Filling the room like a last confession.

It was only a bottle, they will say.
But what do they know of small salvations?
You were the scent that steadied my hands,
That softened the edges of long, bitter days.
You were the whisper on my collar,
Telling the world I still had worth.

And now you are gone.
Your amber tears crawl across the tiles,
Mocking me with beauty even in death.
The air still holds you,
But thinner now, fading
Like promises that once felt permanent.

Why must it always be me?
Why must every delicate thing
Find ruin in my keeping?
Even joy fears my touch.
Even fragrance flees my grasp.

I am tired, Aventus.
Tired of rebuilding what will not stay whole,
Tired of pretending that broken is enough.
You were never too much,
Never too loud,
Just right. Just mine.

Now your ghost haunts this room,
And I breathe you like grief
Sharp, beautiful, fleeting.
O perfume, you were never just scent.
You were memory bottled,
Hope corked tight against the dark.
And now, even you have left me.