Inebriated by fresh smell

of every new dream,

scent lingers as its wafts

softly past my senses,

sensual memories adopted

from the strength of the sun.

Love’s chemistry embellishes

like night blooming jasmine

clinging to perfumed folds,

slipping into your essence.

Balm of orange wine sunsets

tucked under my pillow

as I breath fibers of you

in pink petal skin.

Your bouquet leans

on my heart

until I let it in.

Hunger arises

at musky scent

of dark chocolate,

freshly laundered sheets

and sweet ozone rain.

Touched emotions

awaken my spring,

sweet potion of locked bodies

awakens incense of need.

When I trigger a certain shy smile out of her, what follows is a cascading of subtle events.

She lightly perspires. Perhaps to cool her sudden heat, perhaps to lift her scent from her flesh.

A floral perfume, mixed with her own oil. An intoxication.

She subconsciously gets closer. I take another breath, my mouth waters, my own heat rises.

We touch, a calm before an inevitable storm. She smiles again. The process intensifies.

She turns shyer when she smells her own musk, hating it. Her silent tell of desire.

I crave it, it tips me over desire's, sweet edge.

I barely have a sense of smell. I don’t notice a fart. I don’t notice the aroma of dinner dancing through the kitchen. I can barely smell a candle under my nose. When I do catch a scent, when I notice a smell, it makes it exceptional. The sudden juxtaposition startles me, from having nearly no smell, to having a powerful sensation. A bad smell can have me running for the hills, but a good smell? I cherish the source, yearning to have it, whatever it is. I want to keep it close, to possess what is forbidden to me.

Passion creates

Its own scent

Hot and salty

Tinged with the

Essence

Of the club

At which you’ve been

Or the foods

That you’ve consumed

Heightened in the moment

So that it

Overwhelms

The other senses

Creating lust

And hunger

And a primal need

For two

To act as one

To smell such a scent

Is to recognize

The power of the drive

Within us all

To yield the

Supple flesh

To base desires

The willingness

To forfeit self

For pleasure

And fulfillment

That will eventually

Ebb but then

Rise again

The cycle

Of want

And need

In future present

Disembarking the train, I approached her with such urgency

sweeping her in my arms, burying my face in her neck.

Her fragrance, Wild Poppies, filled my senses and stirred desires, 

She knew it would drive me crazy.

She drove us back to her apartment, stripping clothes as we climbed the stairs

With my pants around my legs, I reached up for her waist and pulled her pants, panties down in a full swoop.

I filled my senses with her scent of Wild Poppies and sex, lips and tongue lingering on her round, wide hips before parting legs, aching for her...

sharp spicy scent of ashen cigarettes

smoked down to the filter and flicked

discarded like my heart

reminds me every time

the aroma passes me by

permeating perfume of those yellowed fingers

smoky blonde hair and her unwashed jacket

coveted like I wished to be

reminds me why

our love faded away

warming wistful wonderful whiff

fills my heart, makes me yearn

for long lost days

reminds me why

our love faded away

faint fulfilling fragrance of ashen cigarettes

rolling papers and sticky tobacco

held on to for life, unlike me

reminds me every time

the aroma passes me by

As I stroke and caress his chiseled body, his skin starts to glisten, and soon he is glazed in a patina of sweat. I take in a luxurious breath and feel the aroma he emanates flood my body, stimulating my senses. His virility is contagious. Evincing hints of everything I savor - café au lait, crème brûlée, fleur de sel, just to name a few - the aphrodisiac amalgamation overwhelms my consciousness momentarily, and I escape into a world where I float on the intoxicating vapors of my man's essence. I can feel his pheromones tickle my mind into oblivion. 

I take a deep breath in. My heart races and I can hear my blood rushing through my body. With every heart thump, he gets one step closer. He wraps his arms around my waist and that's when the first whiff hits my nostrils. The odor of boy sweat and his piney cologne, the smell that hits me every time he hugs me. However this time it is different, more sweat less pine. The smell becomes overpoweringly strong and my nostrils begin to burn, the burning moves down my throat and into my lungs. I cough and my heart slows.

Tequila...

Margarita's tonight.

The smell burns my nose, He says it burns his throat.

Shake. Shake. Shake.

I run and hide.

Close my eyes tight. 

Maybe he won't find me.

Maybe I'll be safe tonight.

Too many margarita's.

Too many times.

I leave and start new.

Whiskey.

Bourbon and Scotch.

The smoky scent

Reminds me of campfire

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Swirl it around the rocks.

They tumble like boulders.

Like we do into bed.

Tender, but strong.

No need for sweet mixes

To cover the flavors.

No need for facades.

Or masks in public.

Whiskey is as pure as love.

One might think that lemon cookies are straight-forward, that either one wants them, or one does not.

One would be wrong.

Lemon cookies make me think of home.

I always ate lemon cookies in my room, curled up on the floor, working on homework.

When I smell them, I hear, as though off in the distance, the Van Morrison CD I played on loop, I feel the floor beneath my fingers, the smoothness of algebra running through my brain, I hear the rain dripping on the roof.

I love all these things, but I still hate how lemon cookies taste.