Jaine Hannath

Her voice smelled like citrus    

Her voice smelled like citrus. Words rolled from her tongue like bright
oranges and yellow grapefruit.

Her voice smelled like citrus – plump words in winter sunshine, suspended
between cool green foliage, close to harvest but not yet ripe – the need
to catch them before their meaning falls heavy and rolls bruised and lost
onto the dry red earth.

Occasionally the lime zest bite – stinging and tart after the sweetness
of the first sound – pointed and clear like bitter lemons slicing through all the fat superfluous words.

Her voice smelled like citrus, clean and refreshing, from her lips to my
ears, revitalizing my body and spirit. Her voice stored in my mind, fluid, like orange freshly squeezed into a clear glass jug.

Her voice smelled like citrus.

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