encounter
Cold on the surface. Warm where it is touched.
Metallic is not a white floral perfume. It is an observation of light meeting a metal surface. Cold. Bright. Smooth. Powder. A lily behind glass.
I am the language of a surface. Of what reflects without keeping. Of warmth that comes only when touched.
listen
Some light only passes.
There are small moments. A ring just taken off, still warm. A spoon touching the rim of a glass. A line of light crossing a table, then gone.
That is when the language of Metallic is spoken. No glare. Only bright enough to see oneself in it.
Not every light needs to blaze. Not to last. Not to be kept.
No scent arises alone. These are the fragments Metallic borrows to find its voice.
echoes
A scent to bring home. A corner to share back.
In the language of Metallic, every brief light matters.
Metallic can be a scent to bring home. A small object on the desk. A smooth brightness on skin.
Or a corner to share back. What passed by. Stories needing no keeping. Only to be heard.