The smell of tobacco and salt,
sun-kissed skin, sawdust
steeped in amber resin.
Sticky, steaming.
He never quits on what he loves—
a handful of things, but he loves them deeply,
as roots can go.
I wish to capture this scent and trap it in a bottle,
embalmed forever, sealed in wax,
so I can press it to my chest, inhale
when nothing else
is left.
About the Creator
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The Echo Architect
In the year 2084, the city of Orizon didn’t just look like a metropolis; it sounded like a masterpiece. In a world where digital data had become sensory, memories were no longer stored in "clouds"—they were woven into physical soundscapes. These were the "Echoes," invisible architectural layers of sound that clung to the walls of homes and the cobblestones of plazas.
By Imran Ali Shahabout 3 hours ago in Poets
Comments (6)
Gorgeously-penned!
Beautiful description. I could almost smell him. This poem hit home. I have a bottle of my Dad's favorite aftershave, I breathe it in and slip one of his old sweatshirts on and pretend he's still here to hold me.
wonderful...
Ahhh...olfactory imagery. So well done. Rich and powerful poem. The ending is haunting and lovely.
I love the way scent is tied to memory here. I often find scents bring back memories.
I wish we could actually do that! It would be so nice 🙂↕️🙂↕️ Loved your poem!