Smelly

So times like now are really difficult.

I don't know how it managed to transcend time and space--but somehow, your smell is on my fingertips. Its inexplicable. It's absurd. It's the smell of 'Gross Pointe Blank' and Toad-In-A-Hole made with Sourdough toast. It's medicine and redwood trees, travel and sleep. Decisions, mistakes, and repetitions. Exploding glass and hair.

Yes, I'm being excessively sentimental--perhaps its the result of a few pints and an 8 hour drive through northern Idaho (not in that order) into the impossibly gorgeous lakeside paradise of Sandpoint (Stars Hollow. No joke.)

The smell is fading. I'm using it up. It brings tears to my eyes. It's like that, though. That's the way it works. I'm okay with it.

But fuck all if I don't find myself missing your celtic knots and your Buffy dance.