I've reached the end of romance.

Its tender undertones and subtle seduction now seem to dry up quicker than the rain than sprays off my skin.

The mystique and exotic charm no longer wrap themselves around my naked skin, and the remnants of its heady fragrance no longer linger in my empty bed with crumpled sheets and forgotten dreams.

Its brilliant light no longer beckons me in the dark urging me to succumb to it one last time.

Its constant comfort no longer caresses me when things seem to go downhill. It no longer announces my presence to those around me; a far cry from the days when I reeked of it.

I have well and truly reached the end of the one thing that I had desired for so long. It has now disappeared from my wish list and will probably never make a comeback.

It's time to put the empty bottle back inside the silver-edged pink box and stash it safely out of my sight. And hope that Ralph Lauren doesn't seduce me with another perfume that fills me with sorrow, heartache and guilt all in the same breath.

Romance was the last thing that my mother gifted me before she died.