The outside smells like when we were talking.
Musty grass. Spring giving into summer faster than most regions. The gardenia tree next door releasing its scent.
Or maybe it’s the perfume I wore last year around this time. Warm and lingering on my neck, rose and blueberry and magnolia.
In the watermelon dome, our skin holds the heat from the day. Everything feels slow and humid, but we are glowing.
We laugh when I speak from one corner and you hear me clearly in your left ear. It feels private and serene.
When I wash my face in the bathroom, the water echoes soft against porcelain, and you say it sounds like I’m right next to you.
Less romantically, the same applies to peeing.
Sound travels strangely in here. The dome folds our voices into each other: everything I say arrives as something you feel.
In the watermelon dome, we sleep on a round, hard bed surrounded by red sheer fabric.
Sometimes I get tangled in it and I have a thought where I rip it violently down,
but it’s beautiful from the outside.
(Daily Writing 048)
Thoughts?