Dear Diary,

I think I’m suffering from breathing memories, and I think it’s pure and simply the ABC’s of olfactory. Damn. It has to be. Nothing has ever made me come more unglued. It was a she-thing, he-thing. Biological or chemical - maybe. Raw. Yes, that was it, raw and animalistic somehow. I’ll tell you what, my eyes could go, my ears along with them, but the nose knows. That him-scent traveled nerves I had been unaware of until I breathed him in. Diary, there was a direct line, right here inside of me, miles and miles of it, maybe, and it was connected to the Y. My Y. It made me all tingly, wet, ready and aching to have him fill me up, all from that heady scent of his. Damn that scent! … miss that scent.