The scent

Everyone has a scent, a natural odour that lingers when they don’t.

Since I was a child my dad has always smell like an old wooden and leather trunk, tucked away on someone’s attic, full of secrets to be discovered by a curious enough child.

My mother has always left on her walk the smell of a forest after the rain, when the sun shines and the soil starts to dry, of the wet moss beneath the bare feet.

My man smells like sunny days, like hot sand meeting the cold salty ocean, like the busy coasts brimming with life.

You, you smell like the seconds before a thunderstorm, the ozone creeping down to meet the earth at the side of the ocean at night, the silence only filled by the sounds of the storm, of the rain that follows when you dip yourself in the night ocean and the only thing you hear is the drops hitting the water surface, of the salt water being washed away by the skies as you walk out into the sand.

And when you go I bury myself in the pillows you slept on, by my side, and imagine us sitting on the sand, letting the rain wash away our sorrows with our laughter the only other thing breaking the silence of the night, my mind wandering of what it could be if we only had the means.

I think of you as I fall asleep hugging those pillows, dreaming of you being by my side again, under me, with those bewitching eyes and your scent filling up the air between us before I cut the distance and drown in that scent at your neck, all around me.