Black Series - AB Blood Concept 2013

So here you are again.
Appeared out of nowhere - "I was never gone."
Leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, head slightly tilted.
Who else but you wears a three-day stubble, with your grin, a bit crooked.
Silver threads in the black, still curly, messy, and a tad too long.
Twenty years, almost.
Your gaze is still the same - very direct, unfiltered, clear.
And cheeky.
You let it off the leash like a dog.
Searching, feeling, remembering.
Twenty years.
Your hand in my hair, blood from my bite on your lip.
You never used many words, no fuss, got straight to the point.
A bit rough, gripping, strong.
Salt on your skin, its scent in my nose.
Dark, spicy, heated, a little sharp, a little dirty.
Twenty years.
Your gaze in mine, your mouth now serious.
One step, just one...

Birch tar.
Time and again, birch tar.
Since "Testostérone," this substance has been turning my head, again and again - but not everywhere.
Rarely is the effect of a fragrance so dependent on its dosage, on the skill of the perfumer as well as the number of sprays.
Just one drop, and images flicker on the canvas, flooding my cheeks red and hot.
And not just them.
But just a hint too much has the opposite effect, turning the Aldi around the corner into a cage of beasts, punching me in the stomach and stabbing my brain.
And then it no longer matters whether your name is Banderas, Clooney, or Keitel.

With "AB," it's one drop, just one, applied to strategically important points, day after day after day.
There, where it is warm under my skin, where wind and weather have no influence.
One drop only, behaving politely and cultivated for a moment, bitter-sweet grapefruit, rain-soaked gray stone.
For a breath, a blink.
And then it turns dark, dry, heat-spicy bitter, deep and rough and don’t let me go.
Birch tar, unmistakably, "white wood" as a synonym.
Nothing else holds a candle to it, no fruit, no pepper, no stone - not here, not there, and not anywhere.
Hour after hour, it glows and smolders on my skin, there, where it is warm and soft, images rise from the depths of my memory, from realms of fantasy, blending delusion and reality.
"That ole devil" comes to mind, and Alison Moyet: "S'pose I didn't stay, ran away, didn't play - the devil, what a potion he would brew…"
It would surely contain birch tar.

PS: Franfan - thank you!