A roast dinner from a Sunday night which clings to drying clothes on the clothes horse and lingers into gym classes the next afternoon.
An inhabited smell, of people I love coming and going and leaving traces of themselves.
The smell of not-too-frequent baths and showers, the only people suffering the consequences being the people who are of the same home, same womb, same atoms.
Alcohol, leftover dredges at the bottom of a glass somewhere near the bottom of my bed.
Paper, pens, books old and new with varying amounts of dust and crisp newness emanating from their spines.
Friends I’ve chosen, and who’ve chosen me through circumstances, bringing cake, bringing muddy boots, and leftover food.
A smell I can’t place and can only perceive when I stop thinking and questioning, one which is yet to be formulated by myself and the circumstances I chase after.
Something like creation and contentment, and a perfumer’s mix of all I’ve lived and done.
My own home.