There are very few things in my mind that can compete with my love of perfume. Music perhaps, photographs maybe... but perfume is something which, for me, envelops all the senses in its warm embrace. You can see it: a beautiful, revered silhouette of reflecting glass, coyly allowing you to glimpse fragments of the precious liquid inside through its semi-transparent form. You can feel it: a light tingle when the wind blows across your wrists before the liquid has dryed, or a smooth, hard-edged surface which you wrap your fingers around in the vain hope that they will melt into the glistening planes. You can smell it: a heady aroma that has you immediately closing your eyes to picture an ex-lover, a cobbled street, a dusty book shop, a hotel suite, a quaint tearoom, a friend, a busy marketplace, a derelict jetty, a distant relative... the reaction is so instantaneous and surprising that the act can often become addictive. You can hear it: the soft whisper of a french accent you would die to possess, the sigh escaping from the close proximity of a pair of parted lips, the long awaited sound of the perfume leaving the bottle and embedding itself deep in your skin, becoming a part of your being. You can taste it: a desperate kiss laced with desire and need, as your tongue skims the cuff of an abandoned white shirt lying unabashedly in the morning sun, and along the slow and sensual journey from chin to collarbone.
How can something possess the power to evoke such passion and nostalgia?
"If love is a sin, then a fine perfume is what must compel you to commit it." - Jean-Paul Guerlain
Beautiful. In every way.
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