If silence had a scent, it would smell like you.

The way my thoughts smooth over like a calming wave when you hold my hand, even this close to sleep. Even this close to sleep, you hold me– not like glass, but something like it, and your hair smells like soap and soft grass and I want to pull that into my lungs until it becomes me.

Your arm around my chest, around my shoulders– it’s like a familiar memory, a well worn path that you’ve never walked before.

I am oblivious to time.

You are silent, and your touch silences every part of me. _Sleep_, it asks, _leave the walking world_.

Even when I leave your arms, the scent of silence lingers. Comforting, your t-shirt on my shoulders. It smells like you.

If dawn never found us, I would be content to stay here.

You do not know what contentment is until you have your arms clasped around it. You have not known peace until it is in your palms. Silence is not an absence of sound, not a vision, but a scent.

Soap. Soft grass. You.