There was little need to even talk, it was enough to just be in your presence. Those nights when the incessant thrum of the city would quieten, the sunset would envelop the skyline and you’d take my hand, leading me to the river. The sensuality of the water would reflect the dusky light, the constant shifting of shapes and soft colours were so mesmerising.
On we would amble, listening to the sway of the water through the reeds. The motion keeping time with the lacing and unlacing of fingers, our pace gently in sync, you slowing, to play out the delay.
That first time I didn’t know where you were leading me a place so botanically rich and varied it induced a sensory explosion. You taught me how to inhale the perfumes the garden so willingly offered up, lingering over the different varieties of flowers that created such heady scents. All these years later I can still reel off your favourites; sandalwood, bergamot, amber, orange.
But it’s your scent that I still long for, indescribable in essence yet so deeply ingrained in my memory, the subtle balance of tonka, vanilla and musk….
Over and over I’ve repeated these words, trying to conjure you to my present time. Only once have I been caught completely unaware by an aroma so familiar it transported me back to those summer evenings. The place where we dreamed together, where we truly lived; our private garden you told me.