the scent of dead grass

The smell of dry grass nestles in the folds of Gin's coat on returning from the plains outside the city. It reminds him of bright hair scented with lemongrass, of warm eyes, of her sword hilt.

Gin shakes off his previous selves as a snake casts his skin. There was a time when he was a child; gone. There was a time when he was a student; gone. There was a time when he was a lover . . .

. . . ah, but that clings to him like the scent of her flesh, the warmth of her touch.

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