The smell of your perfume lingers in my head, from when you get up to when you are dead.
The smell of cropped grass tells me its spring at last, green lush grass is so vast.
The smell of bacon sizzling in the pan, waiting to be devoured by a very hungry man.
The smell of the fire, wood burning pyre, sometimes, an odd tyre.
The smell of your musk as I explore your hollows, deep in you a choose to wallow.
The smell of your coat as you get ready for work, sends my senses berserk.
The smell of fruit in a bowl wanting me to devour it whole.
The smell of freshness and regeneration after the storm, ready for the rest of the day to get warm.
The smell of life, not trouble and strife, leave troubles behind and appreciate what’s around.
The smells around you will astound.
Rhythm of the Ink 