Notes: Fig, Black Currant, Galbanum, Coconut, Davana, Cedarwood, Amber, Orris, Tonka Bean She came to me smelling like the garden after rain. That was the beginning, fresh, sharp, and alive: galbanum crushed between my fingers, its bitter sap, and underneath that, the green skin of a fig split open. I could sense the dark, tangy bite of blackcurrant, with a hint of something wild beneath its sweetness, the fragrance of a woman untamed and not yet softened. I inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar ache return, a sting mixed with longing. Then came the warmth of her rose, the way it feels when skin touches skin. There was coconut in it, creamy and gentle against her throat, and davana that changed each time she moved under my hands. It was sweet like apricots in one moment and dark like spilled wine in the next. It was never the same, making it impossible for me to name it even if I tried, and I didn’t want to anyway. It smelled like no one else but her, and of me on her. And beneath it all, where she felt warmest, the deep notes waited: cedar, dry and clean like her fingers weaving through my hair; amber turned golden and resinous with the heat we created together; orris soft and powdery like the delicate inside of her wrist; and tonka deep and sweet, with hints of almond, hay, and a touch of vanilla. That scent lingered on my skin long after she had left, when the candles burned out and I lay still in the darkness, remembering her.
