Clothes strewn across the chair,
Their scent lingering in the stale air.
The scent of skin and sweat,
Mixed with undertones of perfume.
The ones on top are cold,
The ones below warmer.
They seem like relics of a lost time,
In careful disarray, almost picturesque.
But it's the scent I cannot stop thinking of,
It's unfamiliarity is quite familiar.
I've felt this way before,
For this scent, for these clothes.
It's a little pungent,
seems like a day or couple have gone by,
Since this skin was shed.
I take a quick wiff of my living skin,
My wrists, my arms, even my feet,
Familiar Desperation.
But there's nothing.
The only scent exists outside me.
And that scent is that of a stranger.
Somedays are beautiful, in perfect harmony with myself and then there are days where I feel like everything around me is the same, but I'm not me. Sometimes it's the feeling of being trapped within someone else, sometimes it's the feeling of being held back from reality and sometimes I'm just a passive observer of what happens to me. It's like the tides of an ocean, each coming along slowly, rising high and then crashing onto the shore; and again, and again. And then there are parts far away from the shore, where water doesn't move as much, it's dark, but alive; silent but deep.
Maybe if I try to shout out, I can hear myself within those depths, but my voice won't travel that deep, I stifle myself - holding my mouth shut with my palm, afraid, that my soul will shoot out with my scream and never be rocked by waves to the shore again.
This part of me is endearing, albeit far away within me. It peeks out often, when the waves have hypnotized me, to remind me of the living depths.
Maybe waves will always be a stranger to the depths of the ocean even though they're one.
It's been sometime since I wallowed in depths, these waves are getting taller; maybe Stranger's here.
Picture Courtesy: Reddit threads
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