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10/03/2018
Palonera
42 Reviews
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Palonera
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"Do you smell anything?"
i asked the man who shares his life with mine.
"Do you smell anything?" I repeated, more emphatically this time, my wrist stretched out towards my nose.
His nose, mind you - mine already had, showing me a bird, irritatedly negated.
I really couldn't blame her.
They had never been particularly powerful, the Demeter fragrances I had known before - not for my nose, not for me.
Perceptible, safe, and some even clearly present.
But not "Clean Skin", not the scent in the little roll-on that I had rolled over my skin, that was clean, surely, but that should still smell of something that wasn't me.
But there was nothing, there was nothing, not for me.
"A few flowers, a little powder - not wrong, but it doesn't have to be."
After all, he smelled something - unlike me.
Was I suddenly olfactory blind?
Almost two weeks later, I know: no.
No sudden anosmia puts an end to passion.
But "Clean Skin" is so delicate, so fine and so discreet, that she had to "downsize" my nose first of all, shutting it down from the olfactory superiority in environment and flacon.
Often I don't even consciously perceive them, I blur them out or even an olfactory that surrounds me in the overall picture, which makes it difficult or even impossible for fragrances like "Clean Skin" to get through, to reach consciousness with their gentle creaminess, the gaz-like touch of powder and a musk, so bright and delicate and pure that I can hardly distinguish between them: Where does it start, where does my self-smell end?
"Clean Skin" is - rolled naturally, not sprayed - a fragrance that is not immediately present, not immediately accessible.
He forces - me - to an intensive examination, to a conscientious tracing, to a conscious desire to discover his notes, his effect, his quiet Ichbinda.
A fine, fragile, very intimate fragrance that does not carry far, which I only perceive with my nose directly on my wrist, where it is gentle and clean, natural and familiar like my skin.
Freshly bathed, powdered and creamed.
Not more - and certainly not less.
"Do you smell anything?" I repeated, more emphatically this time, my wrist stretched out towards my nose.
His nose, mind you - mine already had, showing me a bird, irritatedly negated.
I really couldn't blame her.
They had never been particularly powerful, the Demeter fragrances I had known before - not for my nose, not for me.
Perceptible, safe, and some even clearly present.
But not "Clean Skin", not the scent in the little roll-on that I had rolled over my skin, that was clean, surely, but that should still smell of something that wasn't me.
But there was nothing, there was nothing, not for me.
"A few flowers, a little powder - not wrong, but it doesn't have to be."
After all, he smelled something - unlike me.
Was I suddenly olfactory blind?
Almost two weeks later, I know: no.
No sudden anosmia puts an end to passion.
But "Clean Skin" is so delicate, so fine and so discreet, that she had to "downsize" my nose first of all, shutting it down from the olfactory superiority in environment and flacon.
Often I don't even consciously perceive them, I blur them out or even an olfactory that surrounds me in the overall picture, which makes it difficult or even impossible for fragrances like "Clean Skin" to get through, to reach consciousness with their gentle creaminess, the gaz-like touch of powder and a musk, so bright and delicate and pure that I can hardly distinguish between them: Where does it start, where does my self-smell end?
"Clean Skin" is - rolled naturally, not sprayed - a fragrance that is not immediately present, not immediately accessible.
He forces - me - to an intensive examination, to a conscientious tracing, to a conscious desire to discover his notes, his effect, his quiet Ichbinda.
A fine, fragile, very intimate fragrance that does not carry far, which I only perceive with my nose directly on my wrist, where it is gentle and clean, natural and familiar like my skin.
Freshly bathed, powdered and creamed.
Not more - and certainly not less.
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