Self

You know when the air smells like rain but instead of density all you feel is crisp, brisk. You see it in the distance, but instead of shifting streaks of falling water, gravity made visual, just mist. Breeze and goosebumps and trembling. Everything is moving and yet the silence makes it all seem still. Then breathing. Even if you weren't sucking on that cigarette, the air in front of you would still turn into a plume of fog. Ether escaping a dying being. Warmth leaving your body. Inside your head, just a hum. Words don't exist there. But thoughts do. Humming thoughts. Feelings so primitive that words aren't necessary. You just realized you smell like soap. That scent so particular to you and you alone, that one that you and you alone can't notice. It's soap. Soap mixed with popcorn and a bit of grass. Or is that just the grass you're standing in that you smell? You submerge your face into a pile of hair and it's confirmed. You smell like grass. And soap and popcorn.