I have always been drawn to things that blend a hands-on craft with real, raw emotion. For as long as I can remember, I have had this habit of paying close attention to the small details people usually breeze past. That is probably why being a barista and writing poetry feel so natural to me. Behind the espresso machine I am constantly tuning into subtle sensory things: the way a specific coffee note hits, how an aroma fills a room. Writing poetry is my way of doing the exact same thing with feelings. It lets me catch those quiet, fleeting moments and put them into words before they slip away. I am fascinated by how a single line of a poem, or a specific scent drifting through the air, has this incredible power to lock in a memory and instantly transport you back to an exact time and place.

Working behind the espresso bar, I have become kind of obsessed with what we call the bloom: that exact second hot water hits coffee grounds and all the trapped, hidden aromas suddenly explode into the air. That is pretty much how I view fragrance in my everyday life. It is a trigger for a human bloom.

As someone who writes poetry, I spend a lot of energy trying to force big, messy emotions into neat little words on a page. But fragrance? It gets to stay completely wild and shapeless, yet somehow it hits you twice as hard. I don’t use scents as a social statement, or to tell people “hey, notice me”. For me it is more like choosing the atmospheric backdrop for my mind that day. Some mornings I need something heavy and grounded, like damp earth and cedarwood, to match a quiet, melancholy mood I am trying to write through. Other times I want a sharp, chaotic burst of citrus to shake me awake and spark new ideas.

It really is like an invisible landscape I get to walk through. It bridges the very physical, hands-on work of pulling espresso shots with the abstract, daydreamy world my poems come from. It is my own way of time-traveling without ever leaving the room.

My past is locked inside a very specific collision of two smells. First there is petrichor, that raw, damp earth aroma right when a tropical downpour hits dry ground. Then it gets mixed with a very distinct, fresh, woody warmth. It is this beautiful contrast where the wild rain meets a bright, zesty kick of ginger and crisp bergamot, before melting into the green crush of violet leaves and grounding cedarwood.

The petrichor takes me back to my earliest childhood, but those clean, spicy-woody notes transport me straight to my SMP days. That era was so incredibly sweet and golden for me. Whenever I catch that specific warmth in the air, it is not just a place I remember but the actual people. I instantly recall the distinct scents of the friends who filled my life back then: the crowded hallways, the shared laughter after class, the effortless happiness of it all. It is wild how a mix of wet earth and fresh spice can bring back a whole room of people, and a time when life felt completely beautiful and light.

Tonight I am wearing HoM Haute’s Better Left Unsaid for a night out around Gading Serpong. It just felt like the perfect match for the evening chill. It has this really rich, warm, slightly boozy opening that slowly melts into a cozy, dark, earthy vibe as the night goes on. As someone who writes poetry, I am always drawn to that kind of bittersweet, cinematic mood. It is not a scent that begs for attention, but sitting out tonight under the city lights with friends, it feels like carrying a beautiful, quiet secret.

Before going to bed, I usually spray a perfume I haven’t used in a while on my wrist, just to smell it again. If it triggers a random idea, I quickly write a short poem in my notes app so I don’t forget it tomorrow. That is pretty much it. A chill way to wrap up the day.

To me, good taste is a lot like poetry. A line can feel deeply relatable to one person, while someone else might see it as over-romanticising things. Good taste is simply knowing what truly clicks with you, without worrying whether other people think it is “too much” or don’t get the vibe at all. It is about that honest, personal connection.

Ask the poet for one belief he would defend and he answers like a poet: with an epitaph that refuses to behave like one.