It smells like snow.
The air whips crisply through
her lungs as she inhales.
It smells like new parchment.
The excitement of a new book
just waiting to be read.
It smells like Christmas.
Brings her back to when
even Santa Claus was real.
It smells like horses.
They always make her
feel completely free.
It smells like nostalgia,
brings the memories back.
It smells like regret,
pain follows each breathe.
It smells like fear,
that she had but one chance.
It smells like hope.
That fickle friend
promises to catch her,
but still lets her fall.
**And now
It smells like you.**
So full of the past
that I wish my lungs
would
stop.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
It smells like snow.
The air whips crisply through
her lungs as she inhales.
It smells like new parchment.
The excitement of a new book
just waiting to be read.
It smells like Christmas.
Brings her back to when
even Santa Claus was real.
It smells like horses.
They always make her
feel completely free.
It smells like nostalgia,
brings the memories back.
It smells like regret,
pain follows each breathe.
It smells like fear,
that she had but one chance.
It smells like hope.
That fickle friend
promises to catch her,
but still lets her fall.
**And now
It smells like you.**
So full of the past
that I wish my lungs
would
stop.
Copyright © Claire Shelton 2012
Trying to explore all the senses, not just the obvious sight and sound.
Request permission to use this poem