My favourite smell?
My husband's neck. My husband D.'s skin. His skin when we wake up. It is the smell of sleep on the skin of the one I adore. The top note is dreams, blue sheets, and just a thread or two of Latakia tobacco still on his neck from his night insomniac pipe.
The middle note is French New Orleans coffee, which drips down a tad on his neck and chest, when we coffee in the morning in bed, with the sleep aroma top note drifting down as the coffee stain aroma drifts up.
The bottom note is night which is still present and lasts longer than the start of day. It is the smell of the dream the poet had. We were walking down a hallway, I say. I was in the forest again, he says, remember like I told you, when I was a kid and I almost died of asthma and they took me deep into the pine forest, and I could breathe again.
The pine dream. The night hallway. The French coffee. The part where the taste and the smell are one and the same. Sweat and pipe tobacco.
The neck of the man I love, when we wake.
(Sketch by Susan)