A/N: Just a short piece I wrote the other night. Any feedback is appreciated.
It's a thick smell, almost dizzying, and it teaches me how to be silent. And I wish I knew the word, the name of the flower or tree or bush that carries the scent, but I haven't a clue. All I know is it's sweet and it's thick and it reminds me of the times we could have kissed, should have kissed, never kissed.
And it's only in that place, that bend down by the river. I smell it when the windows in my car are down and when I'm listening and looking and seeking the memories.
You remind me of myself. The things I am when people don't watch. Violently opinionated, passionate, yet afraid. Strong, and somehow weak. You taught me how to cry myself to sleep, how to nurse a broken heart, how to walk away.
That smell, it makes me believe. In romance. In first kisses and hand holding and the way one look tells me what you're thinking. We were primitive in those days, just charcoal splashed with pastels. Paint and paper mache. But everything was simple. Everything made sense.
I stayed awake one night to watch the moon rise and set. Everyone talks about the sun, but moons can be golden too.