Scents and Scentsations
Permeating my epidermis
Some days I think I can smell soup,
Others I’m sure it’s death that’s a wafting.
Usually though, the scent is full of memories,
And I’m somersaulted into an ecstatic trance,
Lasting only long enough to convince me to repeat,
Always hoping no ones looking,
As I slowly inhale,
And remember nothing I can distinguish.