with my whole body osculating yours and my fingers digging into your ribs, I bury my face in your hair. I can feel locks of your hair kissing my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my neck, my closed eyelids and my slightly opened lips. I can hear the rustle of book pages under your fingers, the ticking of a clock in our kitchen, your quiet breath and a warm chuckle when I snuggle up to you even closer, killing last inches between us, and inhale deeply. Sandalwood, patchouli, ambergris, musk, ylan ylang, myrrh, bergamot, carnation, jasmine, mandarin… It must be your eau de parfume, the one in the golden orange bottle.
It’s not the only one you have, but for some reasons the only one you use day after day. I don’t mind it, on the opposite, I can’t imagine any other perfume on your clothes, hair and especially on your skin. I don’t want any other. Sometimes I even doubt whether it’s a perfume at all, or just me imagining or hallucinating.
This hypnotic opium fragrance covers everything around you and I’m captivated. It awakens memories of long gone days, when I was just an innocent light-hearted child. Back then there were only grass under my feet and wind in my hair, sun on the rice fields and reddish light of lanterns in the night. Smells of spices intertwined with moistness of jungles. Whistling and shouting in the bazaar and gentle singing of blue robins. My naked feet on the paw prints of a black panther and bites of a checkered keelback on my arm. Chapatis with beans and sweet gajar ka halwa at the family table.
Now these are all just distant memories, which I`m afraid of losing in the never-ending stream of life. So I close my eyes and inhale this opiate scent again, with my head resting on your shoulder. I hope you will never let me forget.
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