Originally posted on September 13 2003 (In a place where September was like July)It smells like home. With no other air than the one that has touched me life smells like my skin, my shampoo, my deodorant and my detergent.
It smells like summer. Air heated up by the sun, almost as if it was once shy, resting over grass who wishes to sleep and trees not realizing how short the life of their leaves is.
It smells like memories. What has been floats by just as quickly as the toughts of the future. It always feels the same when summer ends, something new is expected. Brush strokes over my mind leave traces of me on everything I've touched.
It smells like summer. Air heated up by the sun, almost as if it was once shy, resting over grass who wishes to sleep and trees not realizing how short the life of their leaves is.
It smells like memories. What has been floats by just as quickly as the toughts of the future. It always feels the same when summer ends, something new is expected. Brush strokes over my mind leave traces of me on everything I've touched.
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