Smelly

Every now and again, the smell of wet dog or low tide will seep through the windows. And I find myself inhaling every last drop. In my mind I am swept away to drip castles at Bowermans beach club, surrounded by faces that I’ve seen  throughout every blink of my eyes. Without warning, I am taken by the wind once more. Now, I am wiping off my dogs paws after the muddy rain or icy snow has compelled them to do the wet puppy shake, that splatters my face and the walls. I can still hear those paws on the kitchen tile. I know what I smell here are not actually the smells my brain believes them to be. God knows what it is I’m actually inhaling. But at the end of the day, I am desperate. So I will take whatever little delusion of home that the wind blows my way. 

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