The nutmeg tree reaches
fifteen meters into the air.

Its fruit—
plush, velvet-red—
breaks slowly from the shell,
a fragrant emergence,
like a small animal
pushed trembling into existence
by its mother.

The pulp overtakes the senses.
Sweetness surrendering the nose
into devotion.

He only plays this game once.

At harvest time,
during the season of full ripeness,
the sun-drunk season
of all seasons.

He is prêt-à-porter,
his creation stepping elegantly
onto the red carpets
of Cannes,
the Oscars,
Berlinale.

You exist beside the width of the tree,
proportional to its height.
There is no escaping
the gentle fluidity
of memory—
its endless current
through the chambers of the mind.

Richness melts like gold
under the highest heat,
slipping into the veins,
pouring itself onto a magic carpet
that carries you
to the nearest memory
of your grand-mère:

her closet left open,
inviting you to touch,
to try on,
to become.

Unisex desire hanging softly
between fabrics.

Love lives
inside the frame of this perfume.

Go on—
one sip,
one squirt.

Do it.