Petrichor

When I think of her, I’m overwhelmed by the aroma of wet pavements. Wet pavements adorned with wet leaves. In the month of October. When love is dead and alive at the same time and the smell of petrichor hits the back of my throat like a shot of whisky. I stutter. I gag. I’m fearful of random acts of nature, yet there’s nothing more I want than for the seasons to reveal themselves and for her love to shine brighter than the winter sun or the insides of an orange—bright, juicy, and full of seed. When I think of her, I remember reading Romeo and Juliet in English class and then watching the Baz Luhrmann movie not long after. She’s doomed to suffer, as am I. I mean, we all suffer, but some suffer more than others. Not because we’re cursed, but because only when we suffer do we shine. It’s the ones that shine that put the light in the world. My world is the sofa on a rainy Sunday. Some beer. Some writing. I inhale oxygen, then exhale part bullshit, part truth. They’re mixed together pretty good. If I can be bothered, I’ll fix it. If not, I’ll continue to lie on the sofa, breathing in what it means to be human, dreaming of those alleyways where she dances with abandon, her teeth chattering and eyes flickering like distant fireworks as I lust over the memory of her brunette curls and tiny, painted feet.

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US

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