Sour roses–the whole plant, in a pot with fresh dirt and peat moss–but soft at the opening, velvety petal smooth and alluring.
There’s a whole messy greenhouse vibe going on, horticulture herbalist smart-sexy, a bit disheveled with stained green thumbs. I’d love it on a guy, too–the mad biologist type in coveralls.
Drifts down to sheer woods on the skin in a few hours, a bit sharp at the end, the sawtooth edge of rose leaves giving it bite.
(And why is my cat so nosy about the Balenciaga botanicals?)