WIP: of cotton

WIP (work in progress): The piece below contains the original first draft and, in parenthesis, optional edits both inclusionary and ex. Although this does not make for the best reading experience, I hope it gives some insight into revision. Enjoy. 
 
She smelled of cotton and in this way (I found she) was linked to every woman (of significance) I knew. This smell (this redolent scent), (mind you), was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any perfume (fragrance), artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, (not air), of hands free of (from) polish, (and) skin soft in labor, (not lab). (Her) {she stood before me,} unadorned skin and the thin robe. (She stood with her) head turned upon my chest (and as) I leaned to kiss her neck, parting {holding aside} (her) golden hair, drawing breath. This breath, of a robe long in storage, an afterthought, random, as there were many other robes she could have chosen, was the memory of (love shown with) weary eyes. It was the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small, of meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had (ever) known of love, everything I (sought.) had (ever) wanted. We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made, easy and natural as breath, of that breath standing before bath, of arms that spoke where tongues would not, of (the) continuity {in the way} of blood, of no beginning, (and) {of} no end.
 
__________
 
revised: second draft
 
We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made. Natural as rain to ground, seed to sapling. In the peace of repose, we lie incandescent. Silence descending like dusk. Not even the sound of our breath is heard.
 
Chiaroscuro and sinuous she rises. I hear shape not sound. She moves across my still eyes and I am wordless before this nature, this lapping warmness that engulfs me. From the closet she emerges wearing only a thin robe. We meet in the bathroom before mirror and tub. Her arms open, taking me into her softness, her head pillowed upon my chest. Parting her hair as one would a curtain, I lean and kiss her cream white neck. She smells of stored cotton, of chest-of-drawers, of a time before I knew her.
 
In this way, she was linked to every woman I had known. The robe's redolent scent was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any fragrance, artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, of hands free from polish, and skin soft in labor, of weary eyes and the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small and meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had known of love, everything I sought.
 
By scent alone, she had entered the book of generations, had embedded herself in my mind and memory, this flower standing, dried and pressed between the pages of my past, of people and places that no longer existed, of those alive only in my memory. I knew from that moment she was both past and present, breathing and ghost. And I knew too, she would haunt me for all my days.