CELINE La Peau Nue by Barbara Suim

"And so time bends in the presence of longing. A moment stretches, fluid, the inhale of anticipation before a fingertip moves."

Surface Tension by Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, 1992

CELINE La Peau Nue

Skin remembers before the mind does. The ghost of a touch lingers longer than the words accompanying it. Dissolving into time, a whisper against the ribs. She stands at the edge of memory, breath shallow, waiting for the air to move. The scent of bare skin, warmed and worn, is both then and now. It carries a name and lingers, like a fingerprint pressed into the fabric of the unseen.

She first noticed it in the hollow space between strangers. A man on the metro, his wrist brushing hers too briefly to be intentional. A woman in a café, tilting her head back, the scent of skin rising like heat from pavement after rain. It followed her home, not as perfume, but as something native; something woven into the body’s remembering.

Nights were the worst. The sheets smelled of powder, the air thick with a presence she could neither touch nor escape. Skin against linen, against shadow, against the idea of someone who had not yet arrived. The scent seeped through time, through rooms she had once occupied, hands she had never held. She felt as though she were being traced, not by sight but by memory, by the imprint of touch, slipping from her mind but never from her skin.

And so time bends in the presence of longing. A moment stretches, fluid, the inhale of anticipation before a fingertip moves. The body speaks before mouth does, skin understanding the truth before words can form. She walks through the city, the heat wrapping around her like an echo. The scent of herself, bare, unguarded, follows. Someone turns, someone inhales. Recognition without recollection. A familiarity lingers, like dust swirling in tender light.

Naked skin on linen, on warmth, on breath. It is not perfume but a suggestion, an invitation of knowing without seeing. Of being known without asking. She closes her eyes and feels it move through moments. A fragrance without edges. The smell of bare skin.

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Barbara Suim is a new writer from Amsterdam working between literary analysis, poetry and prose. She primarily conducts research on memory in rural literature; how narratives preserve and interpret the past. In addition to her academic work, she undertakes private research and publishes annotated bibliographies on www.enscitatis.com.

Dahlia by Cy Twombly