There was a man. I loved him. My blood sang when he was near – and every now and then when I see him, I feel like it still wants to. But life has changed, and it’s better that he remains a memory. He had all of these amazing smells:

His long hair and threadbare clothes smelled of squeaky-clean lavender Dr. Bronner’s soap. He used it for everything.

His fingers carried the faint odor of American Spirit tobacco. He rolled his own cigarettes because it was cheaper.

He was a musician, and when I’d come home with him after a show, feeling greedy with want, his skin smelled deliciously of whiskey, sweat, and cigarettes.

I’ve grown to loathe barroom smells, and fear the smell of Dr. Bronner’s on a man, even though I find it simultaneously delectable. That can happen when someone rips out your heart and sets it on fire, then walks away.