Petrichor

Sometimes I can almost smell it:

The moist, fertile soil of the forest grove, as I amble through the leaf litter and wet grass; the verdant swathes releasing their earthy tones of woodland musk and damp foliage;

The stench of the sewer, as bile green, vile green ordure flows between my feet; splashes echoing eerily from the concrete walls as foul odours permeate my clothes;

The tang of leather and latex, rubber and rutting, sweat and sex; the sounds of passion and pleasure mingle with whiplash cracks and faint notes of baby oil;

Traffic fumes, clogging the smoggy air, street smells of oil and wet pavements; a heady mix of diesel smoke, hamburgers and week old dustbins assailing my city senses;

Rustic tones of fresh-cooked pasta, tomato salsa and chopped Basil; a sensory accompaniment to the trattoria’s streamed accordion, little Italy in the heart of Second Life;

The floral bouquet of a wildflower field, pixel sun beating down as I run barefoot through the blooms; new-mown grass scents the air as the breeze ruffles through my hair.

Sometimes I can almost smell it.

Haven’t we all from time to time?

s. x

Happy are we when we choose to wear the blindfold
and mark our own place with
the smell of our own
The Hidden Cameras – Smells like happiness