The smell of tobacco and salt,
sun-kissed skin, sawdust
steeped in amber resin.
Sticky, steaming.
He never quits on what he loves—
a handful of things, but he loves them deeply,
as roots can go.
I wish to capture this scent and trap it in a bottle,
embalmed forever, sealed in wax,
so I can press it to my chest, inhale
when nothing else
is left.
About the Creator
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The Fae King
It began with a girl. Black-haired and sweet and gone too soon. It is the way of mortals to die, of course. Most pass within a few decades, unless they can be tempted away to fairyland and persuaded to stay there. Even then, mortals live only as long as they can go without visits to friends or family that allow time and the weight of years to catch up to them.
By Natasja Roseabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
I love the way scent is tied to memory here. I often find scents bring back memories.
I wish we could actually do that! It would be so nice 🙂↕️🙂↕️ Loved your poem!