the bleach that he used on his t-shirt stings my nose. i close my eyes. i want to experience him fully. without sight or taste, or touch, or even sound. i only want to smell him. i yearn to understand him from the place that is the most difficult to reach.

i am so close to him that his every exhale is recycled into my lungs. my perfume melts into a beaded necklace of sweat along my collar bone. i catch sandalwood and vanilla, perhaps the faintest dash of lavender. he kisses my neck, my earlobe, my lips. i writhe beneath his chewing gum and tobacco breath.

we dissolve into layers. the most animalistic and earthly sense overpowers us. he pants against my shoulder and his hair brushes against my cheek. cedar or oak shampoo masks his bitter, coffee sweat. i smell flower petals upon his fingertips. they belong to me, i know. his thumb circles the hot, steeping violet and rose-hip tea between my thighs.

i gently bite my bottom lip and we roll over the down sleeping bag that smells like his montana mountain home. like the first snow of winter. like the speckled brown trout of summer. 

when i scream with a howl, i smell every star in the wide and wavering night sky. the scent is bold. shocks of quivering energy. static in my nostrils.