The faded scent of jasmine roses
Tails me to dreamland
Beckons me towards
A fragmented past
 
I wake up to the pungent aroma of Arabic coffee
Which lingers in the air way after the neighbours have left
I tear up at the smell of cigarettes
Tugging at the ends of the curtains
Suffocating, releasing

Sundays are freshly baked Ka’ak
Stacked with the smell of gasoline
Father behind the car,
As mother rolls her eyes.
 
Burnt eggplant has a precious odour
It fills my grandma’s shadow
Blend it with some cheap fruity perfume,
and you’ll taste my mother.
Aftershave is rare in my home,
It repulses me
Leaves too soon.

Flipping through memories,
The plastic smell of pink lipstick
and powdery eyeshadow
smudges my fingers
Activating my womanhood
 
The back of the classroom
Used to smell like day-old shawarma
Softened with vodka
Apply some trauma in there

My books comfort me through change
Hold my hand as I cross the border
Do you know what a packed plane
smells like?
Crying babies, silent prayers
A melting pot of scents
 
The subtle trace of maple tress
Reaches for me
As I rewrite my name
On the damp grass.