Aftershave and imagination.
That's what his sweater used to smell like.
I wear it like a hug, and I am okay.
He's not around anymore, but I keep his sweater safe.
It smells like me now.
Like stale cigarettes, spilt beer, and, if only faintly, nondescript tropical fruit.
A single sensual draw off of an already spent cigarettes.
burnt lips.
the calculated twist of her ankle, as the cherry dies delicately under her shoe.
a shoe that was designed only to be worn while her legs are in the air.
She heeds not such a warning.
I can't get the smell of your pipe tobacco out of my favourite towel, so I don't use it.
Dirty blonde with a kiss of ginger. You are the only one who loves my natural hair colour.
If I had any patience left, I might grow it out.
I lost it, trying to love you.
Instant gratification is readily available in a variety of colours.
I am perpetually dressed for a funeral.
