Of the Sweetly Familiar, Of the Red-on-White.
It's like the scent of:
Freshly cut grass floating through my window.
Sweet-smelling jasmine blooms in the night air.
Vaseline in the summer time.
Baby powder on my skin.
Hot lunch cooking in the pot.
Nail polish remover.
Freshly laundered bedsheets.
Cloying magnolias in the park.
Palmolive lavender shower foam.
Lotus petal body cream.
New leather.
Issey Miyake on skin.

Wafting through the air,
unmistakeable.
Imprinted too deeply,
unforgettable.
Sweetly familiar,
instantly recognisable.

It's like the sight of:
The delicate wing of an iridiscent butterfly, torn.
A bright yellow dahlia bloom, trampled on the sidewalk.
Beautifully painted and glossy nails, chipped.
Strawberry-topped ice-cream, melting in the grass.
A pretty, sparkly crystal glass, cracked in the centre.
A rainbow in monochrome.
A fabulous Gucci bag with a coffee stain.
A dying electric blue dragonfly in the lamp.
A white moth, burnt to crisp by the allure of a candle flame.
Blood shed by a hunted baby elephant seal on its snow white fur.
Ribbons of viciously shredded muslin dancing in the wind.
Angry scars on an innocent, beautiful child.
Red welts on white, alabaster skin.
A factory in the green countryside.

Lurking in the threshold of memory,
crossing the line to reality.
Distorting black into grey,
and black is no more, - but white.