Inspired by the language of Aquifer, by Tim Winton

Date: 5-3-2020

Her scent is in the air of my home, the rank perfume of smoke perforated into the very grains of the wood crackling behind the grate. Settling over the drooping lilies; blazing through the sombre darkness as embers of memory. As I lie in bed running my hands through my hair, I know she's there. Unsettling thoughts of her cells mingling with mine in a cocktail over my lips, grains of her makeup embedded into every pore of my skin as ash on the blackened remains of once lush forest. She'd blistered my eyes with her beauty, sparked what was hardened from the pyres of my upbringing, and left me to flicker out in a pool of melted wax.

Again.