I've strayed through these woods, tumbled down sharp, grasping tunnels to seek out your specter in my steps. But you only appear unbeckoned, in the nightly damp of the streets. In an instant you're hovering at my ear, your mute breath shading the glow of the living. Their faces wane, the deisel and drums and shrieks of the marketplace are muffled, smothered as if under the down of a great grey wing, and again I climb the stairs alone. In this room, you must see how I mimic the splay of your arms along the sheets, your neck pulsing, your rambling scars like ivy on weeping stone. By morning it will cover me.
Carefully blended and infused by me in small batches in my favorite sake bottle, Vardogr is a dark, damp, herbal fragrance — mossy forest floors, sunken alleys, underground spaces — with a dozen unlikely notes including pure essential German chamomile, bitter black coffee, hazy Indian musks, sharp herbs and a whip of leather.
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