petrichor (they invented that word for you)
so i had to look up the word. petrichor. regengeruch. the smell of rain. i guess that is what it is. i could never really pin down what you smell like, but i guess that is what it is. petrichor. funnily enough, it seems that nobody else can really pin down what you smell like, either. then again, so what. so what if my sweetheart smells of rain. so what if my sweetheart smells of rain even when it hasn’t rained in weeks, even in the driest of summers, the snowiest of winters, at night in bed, cozy and rolled up in blankets, when we haven’t left the house in days, so what if my sweetheart still smells of rain, always. it’s something to come home to. it’s a tether. it means that when i wake up, some mornings, and i could swear, i could swear, that your face looked different when we went to bed, just a little bit, just half a centimeter more narrow, or maybe your nose was shorter, wasn’t it, just barely? i’m sorry, darling, i know this isn’t romantic, but i don’t remember what color your eyes started out as when we met, but i do notice almost every time they shift, more green today, more grey tomorrow, and i remember that winter when they became darker each day, until, when you leaned in for our new year’s kiss, i could feel myself drown in inky blackness, safe. so it means that, and i realize now that i never finished that sentence because i got lost in how much i’ve adored all the forms you’ve taken on, it means that whatever shape i wake up next to, i will always know to love it immediately, because i know that my love smells of rain.
//
prompt from @nosebleedclub‘s april challenge
