The Scent of a Party
The scent of a party is anxiety mingled with eyeliner -
eyes that look with fingers crossed for some nonchalant
chatter to develop over ice. It floats around long after
your French exit, caught in cushion and lingering in lace - the
dress you bought to impress someone you’d not yet met.
The memory of a party hovers like cigarette fumes, wafting
through fingers clutching helplessly at a past unattainable;
an invisibly present forever stuck to the lips of a teenage
ex-smoker. At midnight, a party’s smell is a handshake musk
curled beside lust, morphing into crushed crisps on carpets,
burnt toast and leather-brown tea by morning. A cure for
a hangover. The odour of it hangs around in shamed text
messages and profile updates, the flashbulb of ironic sepia
photographs printed. Its aroma stays, long after you’ve gone.
Copyright © Thomas Harrison | Year Posted 2020
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