Poudre Impériale

by Nathalie Feisthauer

for Sous le Manteau

It is a strange thing to speak of love. ‘tis a violent burst, an unspeakable force, an unmatchable voice – it is a strange thing to speak of love.

Yours is an intimate glance,

Mine is the lip that I bite.

And it is a body and its heart, your neck and my neck, it is a being and my being. It is you and it is I, it is your sweat against my breast and your saliva twixt my legs. It is the pepper of your calling and the salt of my pleasing. It is the story of your body to be read on my skin.

Is is a strange thing to speak of love.

To tell of you without telling of me. To speak of your time whilst silencing my joy, to describe your hair without admitting my weakness. Fiery flame breathing in my body, a thunder traverses me, a spring which opens my mouth to sing of thee.

It is a strange thing to speak of love.

Of your arms still warm and I within you. Of two bodies entwined, two souls embracing and two beings drowning in one another’s eyes. Of your shining eyebrows and childlike lashes, of your forehead so smooth and your feet so white.

It is s a strange thing to speak of love.

To face our unknown. To speak of this ineffable minute, this second expanding like a lifetime, when we know each other perfectly, when we think each other linked for eternity. Of this sudden blooming, to a star akin, beaming in our bellies.

It is a strange thing to speak of love.

And of this hour when each other, in one another, we held to our souls never to let go. When we met and when we knew each other. Of this hour when we became one, together.

It is a strange thing to speak  of love.

And of the purple, star-piercéd nights, when I could breathe aught but your perfume. Of the lightful lighting on the light of your coming and the dance of shadows on your body like a canvas. Of this body on which my eyes shan’t ever tire, of your sparkly laugh and smile I’d want to bite.

It is a strange thing to speak of love.

For there is you and there is I. For we discovered each other naked. For I tasted your weaknesses as I was weak and your strength as I was meek. For I kissed your bosom as you grasped mine and I sang nothing that you hadn’t whispered in the nape of my neck.

It is a strange thing to speak of live.

To tell on you is telling on me. And of the white linen sheets under which our loves were sung, unspoken. I still remember the studious hour when chanting poetry, I’d nibble on your finger, when lost in your bed I could still smell your odour. I can still remember its orange blossom halo. I can still feel and taste the softness of your hair.

And the sugary of your milk and the juice I would sip from your carnation lips. I have not forgotten the spices, you hadn’t forgotten the incense. I have not forgotten your perfume ; you never judged my candour.

It is a strange thing to speak of love.

Of your skin hotter than glowing embers, of your kisses hissing like molten gold, of your tongue burning like shining cinders and your hair carrying the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg and lemon. I forgot naught of you, I forgot naught of these mornings, I forgot naught of the blue hours when I slid against you. Of the powdery vapours of white flowers in the air. I forgot naught of these summers, naught of the heat, naught of the air we’d drink and the winds blowing under our bed. I forgot naught of the curtains and of the silence come evenstar. I forgot naught of your poets nor of Italian verses we’d paint on the walls before sharing them – wordless.

I forgot naught of your perfume which haunts me when I wake up at night. Of your smell which I look for on every skin and the vigour of our mornings. I forgot naught of your passion, naught of your flame. I forgot naught of our bruises, naught of ours scars, naught of our tears.

I forgot naught of your sweat. I forgot naught of our hallowed hours, unspeakable hours, of our timeless times, of our lives spent in defying death, of the nights we tried to make up for our mistakes. No, no, no I forgot naught of our happiness drowned in the cold ocean of our pride, of the haughty insolence welling up in your eyes, of the apex of our love.

Of my loves.

Naught of your departure. Naught of my silence. I forgot naught of the bitter bitterness which brought me back to life. Naught of your abandon, you whom I had loved. I forgot naught of your perfume clinging onto my lives. Naught of the solitude and the frost which had conquered me. Naught of the evergreen gardens, now grey forever nor the weeping willows. I forgot naught of your elemi growing in my mother’s garden. I forgot naught of my fall and my falling in thee whilst your breath of cinnamon spired a life in my peppery lungs.

No, no, no, I did not forget you. For you are I and I am you and I did not forsake you. Nor my being in you, nor my faith in you. Nor your empire over my dreams, nor your power on my senses.

And our lives. Together.

 “For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant.”

Poudre Impériale - Sous le Manteau

EdP 50ml/100ml - 120€/165€ 

Available in New York, London, Paris and worldwide.

For more informations, check their website : www.souslemanteauparis.com