Sweet Leather

The leather smells almost sweet in my hands,

despite the worn appearance and the crumpled edges,

it's history an inviting story.

The silver buckle clinks like a tiny bell

rung out of tune but still singing

and the soft suede lining of the belt sits comfortably around my neck.

I stand on the loungechair next to the door,

with excitement once reserved for climbing trees as

the threat of losing balance adds excitement and adventure.

I push the door shut while laying the belt over top

so it jams in the doorframe with a creak and a shutter,

another crinkle in its folds,

and I pull downwards with force to make sure it won't slip

but the chair wobbles, and I freeze, and

suddenly the leather doesn't smell so sweet anymore.