January
White morning light. Wet snow outside the window, melting into raindrops against the glass. Grey sheets, the faint cotton air of fresh linen, our bodies covered by a vast blanket. Your body is as warm as mine I feel it even through sleep.
My hair lay across your chest like watercolor brushstrokes. Your left arm wrapped around my shoulder; half-asleep, you stroked it absentmindedly. The scent of your cologne lingered on your skin I catch a note of fir, and quietly breathe it in.
Your hand moves from my shoulder to the crown of my head, smoothing my hair, kissing it softly, inhaling the trace of musk tangled in it. I wake completely, lift my head slightly, and look at you with a sleepy smile. You touch the tip of my nose with your finger.
I study your face, your neck. Your neck still carries traces of my red lipstick from the night before. You tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear and, in a low, husky whisper, say,
“Happy New Year.
February
Twilight embraces February London, generous only with heavy grey clouds and fine rain. On the pale wooden table, white tea cools in an English porcelain cup. Steam dissolves into the open kitchen that flows into the living room. A marzipan sweet reveals its scent only when brought close to the lips. Even now, as I bite into it, I cannot quite catch its aroma.
You open the door. Evening rain slips from the roof onto the porch. Cold, fresh air enters our home. I pull my grey cardigan closer around me it matches the sky perfectly. You take off your coat, damp at the edges, carrying a trace of sandalwood — one of the notes of your perfume that seems to kiss your neck.
You walk to the table, kiss the top of my head. Bergamot fills the air as you lean closer. It is a small distraction so you can steal the first sip of warm white tea after the cold street.
March
The first rays of spring sunlight play chase with brooding clouds. London grants us a few dry, golden hours.
I put on a milk-coloured wool sweater and step into the back garden. The cool air tangles my hair, still scented faintly with sweet vanilla. You are sitting in an armchair on our summer veranda — which has missed us all winter — reading. As you turn a page, your gaze lifts to me. A smile appears on your face, along with the first delicate lines at its corners.
Your brown sweater smells of nutmeg; I notice it when I sit beside you, holding a mug of warm milk. I take a small sip — it warms me from within as your hand smooths my unruly hair.
I laugh and bury my face in the high collar of your sweater. Nutmeg mingles gently with my vanilla and the soft trace of milk. I tuck my legs beneath me, breathing against your neck while you stroke my back, humming quietly and continuing to read.
I close my eyes. The sun wraps us in its warm glow.
April
As soon as we step inside, the cool air of the street dissolves into the warmth of the restaurant. Lantern light gives way to the flicker of small candles. Your dark blue denim shirt blends perfectly with the chestnut wood panels on the walls.
Your hand rests on my knee; I play with your watch. The faint dampness from outside still lingers, teasing my senses.
You laugh loudly, tilting your head back when one of your friends tells a story. A light note of vetiver clings to my wrists as I touch my gold earring. You lean closer; I catch cardamom from your shirt.
Your hand slides to my thigh, gently massaging. Your lips brush my ear — you always kiss me there, where the tiny mole is. I laugh softly and search for your other hand beneath the table, squeezing it.
The air smells of wood and earth. Candles melt slowly into golden pools of wax. I lean toward you and whisper,
“Happy Birthday.”
May
Morning sun embraces Greenwich Park with still-tender rays. The scent of blooming cherry trees drifts through the air; the noise of London hides behind the oaks. We find a place beneath a chestnut tree where I spread a small blanket.
You unpack a thermos of tea, a few biscuits, and a pair of green apples. Leaning against the wide trunk, I take a sip of black tea with bergamot. You bite into an apple; the fresh wind stirs our hair.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply — spring air I have missed through months of rain.
You reach for the thermos; I hand it to you and take the apple instead. Its sweet-sharp juice touches my tongue and I wince slightly. You close your eyes as you sip your tea, hear my reaction, open one eye, and laugh quietly.
June
We escape the city. The quiet of dusky June wraps around our home. The scent of fresh shampoo lingers in my hair; my skin pulses softly with jasmine.
You sit on the sofa in a white cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, slowly brushing your fingers across the strings of your guitar, humming something that sounds like “Her by the American Dawn.”
I spray a mint mist over our pillows while you open the window to let in air. Cool June breeze blends with mint inside the room. My light strands sink into an ivory pillow.
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You take off your shirt; its scent fills my lungs. You rest your head on my chest. I run my hand through your hair, moving it rhythmically. You smell of cedar and lemon.
You take my left hand, squeeze it gently. A second later, I feel your warm breath against it then your lips on my fingers.
July
A small villa in a quiet corner of Florence. We are having breakfast on the terrace. My hair is tied in a loose bun; the wind keeps pushing yours back, and you smooth it away again and again.I tell you your eyes are the colour of the sea, and mine the colour of the sky. You shake your head, biting into a nectarine, saying it’s the other way around.
Juice runs down your hand. I trace it with my finger and taste it. You offer me the fruit; I take a bite. Sweet nectar touches my lips and fills my mouth.You laugh, lean across the table, and kiss me slightly unsure. Honeyed nectarine lingers between us.
You find my hand and play with the ring on my finger. I smile into the kiss; you pull back. Walking around the small table, you lift my chin. I stand. We kiss again; your hand rests on my lower back.
Your hair carries a faint, unfamiliar note of blackcurrant.
And still — your eyes are more like the sea.
September
We stand in the hallway near the dresser where our keys and favourite perfumes rest. Tiny droplets touch my skin; I catch top notes of honeysuckle, mandarin, and rose.
You close the kitchen window; the house grows cooler. The sun sets, sending a few last beams across the floor. I wrap a soft pink plaid scarf around my shoulders to match my coat. You joke that I am too light for London. I laugh, adjust your blue scarf, and kiss your cheek. You still smell faintly of sandalwood.
We are heading to a poetry evening where you will present my poem. I don’t know which of us is more nervous. I squeeze your hand; your thumb moves slowly across mine.
When you leave my side to begin, I take a sip of white wine to steady my throat. You run your hand through your hair. I imagine your wrists scented with musk and jasmine.
Your blue eyes meet mine as you say my name and the title of the poem. I smile and blush. You suppress a smile and begin to read. When you return, you kiss my forehead. I rest my hand on your knee.
October
Warm lantern light settles on our shoulders against dark London as we walk toward a restaurant. My boots click against damp grey pavement. Our fingers are intertwined.
Inside, you help me remove my coat. I smooth my short black dress. We sink into soft burgundy velvet chairs beneath a white floor lamp casting a gentle glow.
Cinnamon, cherry, and vanilla wrap around our table when dessert arrives. You sip warm tea with milk to shake off the cold. I place a piece of warm pie into my mouth and make a satisfied sound. You smile and take another sip. I lift a spoonful toward you. Now you taste cinnamon and cherry and make the same pleased sound I did moments ago.
A trace of my red lipstick remains on your teacup. You tuck a strand of my hair back behind my ear.
November
I switch on the lamp in the living room and light a few candles while bread browns in the oven. The aroma drifts into the living room, blending with amber and spice from the candles. I wrap myself in a warm blanket. London rain begins outside.
The sound of a key turning. You open the door. Cold air rushes in, as if seeking shelter from the wet city. You glance into the kitchen, searching for me. I peek from the living room, still wrapped in the blanket.
Behind your back, you hide a bouquet of white carnations adorned with small fir branches. You carry the fresh scent of the street. I inhale clove and pine — replacing warmth with coolness.
Your cold hand touches my waist, pulling me closer. The warmth of my clothes transfers to you; goosebumps rise on my skin. You laugh. I wrap the blanket around us both. You lean into me, guiding us gently toward the sofa.
December
After lunch, I go upstairs to our bedroom. Fluffy white socks warm my feet against the cold floor. Beside me stands a latte and a few pieces of white chocolate. I taste the milk foam. In front of me lies my notebook — most of the poem already written.
I hear your steps. You come up behind me, kiss the back of my head, and offer me a few almonds from a white bowl. I taste one, wash it down with coffee. You sit in the armchair by the window with the book you began weeks ago. I hear the quiet crunch of nuts and smile.
An hour later, I walk over to you with the notebook. I sit on the armrest. You wrap your arm around my waist. I tell you softly that I have finished the poem. I begin to read it aloud.
You kiss my cheek and whisper,
“As always, wonderful.”
You smell of almonds.
I smell of white chocolate.
