Smell of Time
It contains the present, past and the future
The new piercing smelled of the wet rusty scent in our blood. The swoosh in the wind emitted the bitter memory of familiar intimacy. The morning effused the freshness of the flowers my lover got me. The morning dissolved in the aroma of the coffee I missed. The bag I unpacked from the beach trip still exuded the stench of the fish at the sea. The clinging, naked bodies diffused the smell of mature sweat. The used underwear bled the warm, earthy tone of wine in an oak barrel. The whiff of my aunt’s spicy chilli pickle spiralled through the kitchen in the burp of my coughing throat. The rotting smell of unwashed dishes roared till the dining room where the pungent smell of old smoke lingered. The acrylic smelled of nothing at first, and then the touch gave away what it was trying to preserve. The bed smelled of him and me and us intermingled. The room, though, was a smell of lifestyle choices with the essence of lavender and sandal products seeping through our capitalized voices. The medicinal taste of the wooden cabinet, a revolting smell for the recovering bodies and hopeless spirits. The deluding candle of hope and happiness emitted the carcinogenic scent of slow decay. The windowpane smelled of dried bird shit and the city. The wind was the smell of time, nostalgia bleeding through its invisible passage, the wet rusty scent in our blood.
