Smells like a father Laying on her stomach drunk with sleep, she stretched her arm out and held her hand out in front of me, waving a "no" to my clothes. Muscles tensed slightly in her back, shadows faring their way over her valleys and mountains in the gloam of dawn. And without a word said, I was naked and in love. That year autumn came, not with cold or rain, but with her perfume carried on the wind. At night, the town could die without guilt, for we lay together in the grass. And the sun would rise with the warmth we had borrowed, and give back to the town, what colour we had made. And when the rain finally came, it rained. To tell anyone that would listen, that every poetic, nostalgic and romantic thing said about it was wrong, the rain kept on. The fjords rose to reclaim the #life they had given the valleys, and the streets became clean and empty. Selfishly, the lights illuminated only themselves, winds hid under cover, and nothing, nothing dared to challenge the rain. Falling hard and straight, drowning all sparks of our eyes, the rain kept on. She smells like a father, I realised after she'd gone; Whiskey and smoke, radiating warmth. Had the rain suffocated the fire or simply washed it away to someplace else? What pavement was her feet planted in, what eyes caught fire from her sight? I always told her that if she asked, I'd come running fast. But she's sent me running far and it's a long way back.