"I miss the smell of unfamiliarity. The smell of strangers who are equally intimidating as the scent that they wear. A whiff of semi- expensive perfume and the rub of a strong musk. Much like a stark reminder and a snappy warning. I miss that scent, I miss you.
You are far away.
We'll drift farther apart. I'm glad I loved the idea of a future. In that future I'll still get memories ingrained at the back of my eyes, triggered by even a hint of your scent. You made me hopeful, on top of a lot of things.
You reintroduced me to the distant memory of many things: the distinct smell of freshly pressed ink on paper, the smell of old books, the craze over dreaming again and hoping to write more than the shit that I need to write. Writing, even skittering with no central train of thought. It is a good prospect to love the idea of having a muse, and that you are her though it is sad and unfortunate.
The choice was clear, and so is the memory triggered by the passing of that stranger in the terminal who wore the same scent as you, or something sorta close to it. Closing my eyes right after it would take me back instantly to the many short stories that you starred in but it would fast forward me to the pain of reliving it. Though I regret nothing, you linger like a bad memory. You are a bad memory that I love. But bad memories don't want to be loved, they want to be remembered. I feel like a bomb sniffing dog."
A little reading to share the feeling.
And another one.