The word has its own definition in the dictionary…as it may have its own sens in each of our worlds.
I came across the meaning of this word, when I met you. I had a buried feeling; a silenced sensation; a kept sentiment that I could not translate into words. Not even one word.
Because words are usually my intimate asylum…My escape, and my way out of my own rebellious and revolutionary mind.
This time, words turned into a cage…this particular word turned into a cage…my own personal cage: Sillage.
Sillage…it was the scent that lingered in the air…for some…the trail left in water, after a droplet or a tear…for some others…It was even, possibly, the impression made in space after something or someone has been…and then gone. But for me, sillage was the name of my jailer: the trace of your perfume that turned this word into a prison…my own personal prison.
It is the word that allowed me to kiss your mind, when you were away, and taste your thoughts when you were gone…the bitter and the sweet. It was the word that let the echo of your memory poison me, till it owned me, in this prison.
Now, sillage is my siege.
Today, all I can do is sit around and contemplate the way this word allows the echoes of your scent to complicate my life. Every puff…every draught…and every blast of your perfume curved a different letter in my memory.
Now, today, even a puff of my own fragrance swings the weathercock of my memory around.
Today, you are my sillage…