This and That.

Long paragraphs are my favorites. I love how they manage to describe so much in what would seem like a single breath-span. It says a lot about confidence too - how it seems to brag about the nearing obvious with flourishing lengths of language.

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What a familiar scent in the air.

The crisp breath of a creeping dawn, the damp sweat of dew painting chilly images outside my living room window; My sketchbook lies open-faced by the end of my elbow, pens scattered, and the tune of a song I've been playing on repeat over and over again hum silently from this brightly lit screen that now seems to only sting my eyelids with whines and irritated murmurs.

This is a familiar scent indeed.

I can only wonder how many times it has been 5.30 in the morning, with this same image of myself, deeply slouched, tickling over my keyboard as if these were keys to a baby grand - the sounds it makes, full of its tip-tap's, fill my desolate corner with only echoes of words that will not speak themselves.

These are words that do not demand to be read, but only offer - like silver platters, they are open arms, with fork and spoon on the ready - take as you may, decline as you please - lick the flavors I may offer you, swirl the wine of my thought 'round your tongue zealously, or then spit me out to not sink yourself, intoxicated by the poison it is aged with.

Yes. This familiar scent of almost-passionate writing has claimed residence in me for so long, I often times don't even notice it's there. I may raise my nose once in a while and flare my nostrils in search of something new - perhaps something bitter, or morose to inhale - but easily enough I find this: a subtle smell, lulled with a dank sweetness: like roselle, or chrysanthemum.

I call this comfort.

Though sometimes I find it beneath the bend of someone else's arm - there, I indulge in the sniffs of the owner's long days, his warm showers and tedious phone calls, and the nights he has either slept too well or too little. Yes, he is hot cups of spiced chocolate on the days that's skies would not stop sobbing.

He is a quiet wonder - the candle lit road to a bigger fire. Ahead is the hearth that embraces my face; the kind that kisses away frostbites, and licks blusters into whirlwinds.

I imagine myself many years from now: it is 5.30 in the morning. The room resonates with the tip-tap's of a keyboard - perhaps a one that is shiny and new - while the sun is rubbing his eyes of dust, ready to rise from his bed behind the horizon.

To my right is my candle light, scented with further age, with a love that has grown both battered and bettered - he smells like an alarm clock waiting to ring; Like groans and toast on the dining table. He feels like a heartbeat; Like rough stubble over my wrinkling cheek; Like tossed sheets.

I would almost call it comfort.

Though comfort, then, would a be word I'd only stutter. It would be a word I'd have only an urge to give, but always pull back to hide beneath my over-sized t-shirt, shy by the way it calls itself true.

No. It would be so much more than that.

Because alongside that familiar scent in the air - then, I would call it sanctuary.