My grandma smells of Mogras
from our garden,
sadness, medicines and the itr
my grandfather used to wear
Our house still smells of him
and as she walks through the lobby
with her heavy heart and tired eyes
and you know then, this house
will never feel like home to her.
My mother smells of war,
the one in her mind
the one she loses every single day,
yet her smile screams hope
into my barren heart
and with every rising sun
she loses pieces of herself
and sometimes,
she reeks of emptiness.
My father often smells of ruins,
and rotting tears
that never found a way out
but on some days,
he walks around with a straight face
which smiles slightly
every now and then
but there is no scent,
nor any colours,
or so I can't decipher;
on some days
my father smells of a void
and on most days,
I mirror him
and his scents
and when I don't -
on those days
I smell of many small heartbreaks
and a small pallette where
yellow mixes with the greys
with green and blue on the edges.
On days, when i don't smell like a void,
I smell of a messy rainbow
that has lost it's way
in a storm
-raika.a // someone who reeks of rhyme less poems and words floating in a void
