The smell stays in your nostrils for days after, you think you smell it on your body, on your fingers, on your arms, on your chest and you can taste it on the back of your teeth.
It’s not just one smell, it’s a mixture of perfume, of sweat and of love. A heady mixture that has the power to carry you back in time to places you were, back to the things you said and what you did.
One whiff brings back that smile that killed you the first time it flashed your way, another brings back the heat and the proximity of the body that you held and a third, the pain of parting.
You smell it in an elevator on the way up to work, you sneak a glance but the source is nowhere to be seen, not the source that you wanted anyway.
I’ve heard that we have no memory for smell, well not one that parallels sight and sound. But somehow I do remember and like the Lady Macbeth no matter how much I try to wash it off, my fingers still smell.
It comes to me at the strangest of moments, when I take a drag, it’s not the nicotine that hits the back of my nose, but the smell. When I pull off my t-shirt, there it is again. I spray on some deo, Brut should do the trick, well it gets me through the day but back home again, it pursues me.
I remember the first time I noticed it, happier days, the wind blew it my way, a dense cloud of hormones and sunshine and monsoon all at the same time.
It’s the smell of rebellion, of freedom of the wind in your face as you drive, the weight on your shoulders and pain in your wrists and the warmth on your back. It’s the long strands of hair that whip against your face as you are caught in a crosswind, as you tread through gears and hold the bike steady as it careens to one side encouraged by an enthusiastic gust.
It’s a wave goodbye, it’s a promise whispered in your ear, it’s the unspoken promise from one pair of eyes to another. It’s the sinking feeling in your gut when you hear the words, ‘we have to talk’. It’s the expression of hopelessness mirrored on your face. It’s knowing what could be perfect is being torn from you. Knowing decisions that affect you, your life are being made and you could scream your charred lungs out and it wouldn’t make an ounce of a difference. Not to you not to who matters, it only hurts more. The smell dries out your eyes, it hollows out your laugh and draws lines across your forehead.
A mere whiff that killed you the first time it wafted your way, now drills painfully into your head, knowing that it belongs to another. Let it go you tell yourself, but there it is on your fingers, on your arms, on your chest and against the back of your teeth.
It’s not just one smell, it’s a mixture of perfume, of sweat and of love. A heady mixture that has the power to carry you back in time to places you were, back to the things you said and what you did.
One whiff brings back that smile that killed you the first time it flashed your way, another brings back the heat and the proximity of the body that you held and a third, the pain of parting.
You smell it in an elevator on the way up to work, you sneak a glance but the source is nowhere to be seen, not the source that you wanted anyway.
I’ve heard that we have no memory for smell, well not one that parallels sight and sound. But somehow I do remember and like the Lady Macbeth no matter how much I try to wash it off, my fingers still smell.
It comes to me at the strangest of moments, when I take a drag, it’s not the nicotine that hits the back of my nose, but the smell. When I pull off my t-shirt, there it is again. I spray on some deo, Brut should do the trick, well it gets me through the day but back home again, it pursues me.
I remember the first time I noticed it, happier days, the wind blew it my way, a dense cloud of hormones and sunshine and monsoon all at the same time.
It’s the smell of rebellion, of freedom of the wind in your face as you drive, the weight on your shoulders and pain in your wrists and the warmth on your back. It’s the long strands of hair that whip against your face as you are caught in a crosswind, as you tread through gears and hold the bike steady as it careens to one side encouraged by an enthusiastic gust.
It’s a wave goodbye, it’s a promise whispered in your ear, it’s the unspoken promise from one pair of eyes to another. It’s the sinking feeling in your gut when you hear the words, ‘we have to talk’. It’s the expression of hopelessness mirrored on your face. It’s knowing what could be perfect is being torn from you. Knowing decisions that affect you, your life are being made and you could scream your charred lungs out and it wouldn’t make an ounce of a difference. Not to you not to who matters, it only hurts more. The smell dries out your eyes, it hollows out your laugh and draws lines across your forehead.
A mere whiff that killed you the first time it wafted your way, now drills painfully into your head, knowing that it belongs to another. Let it go you tell yourself, but there it is on your fingers, on your arms, on your chest and against the back of your teeth.
1 comment:
well what can i say - you write beautifully - and are so passionate
but as the cranberries said - do you have to let it linger?
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