This is not a Blue Bottle 1.2

Ceci n'est pas un Flacon Bleu 1.2

Histoires de Parfums 2017

She wore corduroy pants and often a "Bush" band shirt. Her hair was always just done up with a scrunchie. Maybe a little kohl and that was it.
She -only she- could scold me so nicely " Luuuuke" with a mischievous grin and look at me almost impudently mischievous.

So we sat there 14/15-year-old on our meadow in the summer of '98, have drunk sticky iced tea, Luckies smoked and written cheesy poems. No desire to parents, school and haste not seen what else. We had us and our dreams; there on the meadow at "our " tree.

I sit in front of the "this is not a blue bottle" - bottle, sniff it, and can smell these moments, days, weeks and "they". The little forest with the ivy-covered trees, the lily of the valley at the edge of the forest, the lilac bush and all the sweet, green trades on this meadow of ours.

I was in love.
She could not love me. That's what she told me. In the summer ; back then.
The last time I saw her was in 2003. This blue bottle in my hand I love now. In February. And wait for the summer.