If he were a room, it would be the living room with all of the cozy couches and cushions, in shades of mauve and moss, accents of rubies here and there—devil’s ivy in jars of water on the tables, unfinished puzzles on the rugs; monsteras lurking in every corner, a mirror ball in the center, bookcases lining up the walls with thousands of pages waiting to be devoured. cozy. comfortable.
If he were a routine, it would be the long, scalding hot shower, something to look forward to after an exhausting, ridiculous day job, a small window of time where dreams come alive and hope resurrects itself. If he were a scent, it would smell of fresh shave and leather, fougère, something between lavender and heaven.
If he were a house, it would be the house on a hook, grand and white, Italian and lovely.
If he were a home, he would be my home.
seasalt memoirs 