it was only as the sun was slowly swallowed by the waves, extinguishing itself in the hazy blue-orange horizon, that it dawned on him that he would never again be surrounded by her scent. his fingers turned ashen, wrapped around the railing, white as gravestones, as this realization made its way through his body, traveling up his strong, brown arms and pausing, for a moment, at his chest, where she had marked out a place with her fingertips to denote his heart.
he stood there, for a long time, remembering how those self-same fingers would travel up, and down, her arms, each fingertip lingering, in turn, for just that single moment longer than desire would allow for. he thought of how he had never believed that people of this earth could turn to smoke, be breathed in by one another, twist around each other like the thin tendrils of a quiet fire - as if human beings were, really, only flame and ash. and as he stood there, his body stuck rigid against that railing, he realized that he could not, and would not, leave.

an old man played a sad, soulful tune on his guitar as this young man looked out over the horizon, finally realizing that he had known all along what it was that love smelled like.

some say that it is roses, the wet earth and thunder; but they do not realize that even curiosity has a taste, and some are not quite as feline as others. perhaps all that we were put on this earth to do was to smell our scents, to discover the tastes of our lives.