11 January 2019

january, home.

it could be anything, and today it's the old fashioned romance of a single puff of his cologne (musk, moss) on my skin while he's away. roses long ago dried. roses the color of ballet slippers. whiskey gleaming beneath cut glass. baby in the bath: bubbles and calendula, water droplets tangled in feathers-for-lashes. an iron pot of soup rolling: chicken and lemon and butter and wine. an abundance of rosemary.

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