The Zenith of Petrichor Dreams
I stood upon the terrace, where the air tasted of ozone and
Manhattan Midnight
Ephemeral Bubbles in a Concrete Sky
The air on this rooftop tastes of ozone and expensive jasmine, a
The Scent of Petals in a Concrete Labyrinth
The air in the boardroom was always sterile, smelling of expensive vellum
Neon Solace in a Rain-Slicked Dream
The scent of Santal 33 lingers on my skin, a sharp contrast
The Luminescence of Submerged Silence
The city above is a jagged crown of steel and glass, humming
A Fragrance Left at Twilight
The rain doesn’t just fall in this part of the city;
Velvet Silence Above the Neon Tide
The air in this corner office always tastes of expensive bergamot and
Symphony of Amber and Silk
The scent of white musk and sandalwood clings to my skin, a
Crimson Steel and Peony Silk
The air at this altitude tastes of ozone and expensive silence. Down
A Fragile Truce Between Steel and Petals
I left behind the scent of sterile air conditioning and Tom Ford’
The Crimson Interval
My life is measured in floor numbers and the sterile scent of
The Azure Interval
My world is usually measured in the sterile scent of Le Labo
