The smell of sticky buns wake me up but I haven’t quite awoken yet. I can feel the crust from last night keeping my eyes shut. Maybe It just doesn’t want to see, the sticky buns aren’t real and my stomach hurts hungry for home and the smell of my mother’s shampoo.
Sometimes I dream of never meeting you. I dream of the dates I would’ve never experienced, the love thrown in the void.
Would I even know what love is without you? Would I still believe in fate, or true love?
Home is mom’s Shepard pie and ginger snaps.
Home is the one scent you can never quite place, it appears out of nowhere to return you to age 6 on the swings yelling ‘higher grandpa, higher’ it yearns to be bottles and relived.
My dad was a super hero. One weekend out of every month.
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