Every loss needs a souvenir. Everything, everyone. All those rapt dreams and frail fire-eyed lovers, punctured and drained one by one, smothered, fractured, faded, bled. They clutch at your skin, and your skin answers, soaking up every color, every contour, turning you more shocking, more exiled, more strange. It's conspicuity you hide behind, like you hid all those nights, those pacing smoking drinking flailing nights-the poet's attic, the drummer's stage. The headlights, the dark, the churning river, the whimpering wind, the twisted road. The map ground softly into your flesh, to drown out the monstrous machinery, the cold sheets, the white silence. The quivering canvas beneath your shirt. The more you reveal, the more they'll never know.
Inked is a biter-this fragrance throbs with a sting of sea salt and leather and splashes of communion wine. It evokes . . . well, it evokes raw skin. Yet it's perfectly embraceable. And perfectly appropriate for gents and bold ladies. A multitude of different scent elements and weeks of methodical alchemy make Inked no ordinary scented oil mix-it's a truly inimitable fragrance, part of my Calliope Crash line.