Language of
Tobacco
Thuốc Lá タバコ
Lân La · Wandering
encounter
Wandering closer, never once naming it.
Tobacco is not a heavy-smoke perfume. It is an observation of dried tobacco leaf, smoke that has not caught fire. Honeyed. Hide. A thin wisp of smoke circling, never touching, never leaving.
I am the language of a slow, purposeful approach. Of steps slowing while the heart moves closer. Of a gaze that lingers longer than necessary.
listen
Smoke yet to catch, but already lingering.
There are small moments. An evening walking one beat slower past someone. A line half-true, half-joking, sent without waiting for a reply. A delicate space between reason and desire, standing still, in no rush to cross.
That is when the language of Tobacco is spoken. Not rushed. Not overt. Yet undeniably meant.
Not every feeling needs naming. Not the touch. Not the leaving.
No scent arises alone. These are the fragments Tobacco borrows to find its voice.
echoes
A scent to bring home. A corner to share back.
In the language of Tobacco, every wandering closer matters.
Tobacco can be a scent to bring home. A small corner on the desk. A leather-and-honey layer circling the evening.
Or a corner to share back. Things still unnamed. Stories needing no break. Only to be heard.