Petite Mort | EDP

The Phantom Queen She is lipstick stains on smoked antique glasses,sticky with sugary sweat and secretspenned into every cardamom-soaked letter she writes.She is jewel toned radiance in velvet and smirks,as soft-spoken as her dangerously knowing smile.But only by day—For the moment moonlight slips beneath the lace of the curtain,she is gone.You’ll never see her leave—but the whispers carry her through candlelit libraries thick with smoke,through laughter trailing from velvet lounges,through mirrored ceilings refracting as she slides in beside you—buttercream fresh on her lips,love letters flush under her garter. She collects them as currency—notes with fresh ink from deserts and catacombs,penned by her mysterious lover.She is perfume and prophecy,dancing between realmsbare feet on the kitchen floor.The blush across her chest is all honey and haunt.And you know—she is waiting.maybe conjuring—For the touch of a phantom.For the grief.For the sweetest sting of a cherry-cheeked punchline.Sh