Top Notes 
Cardamom
Galbanum
Lavender
Heart Notes 
Clove
Caraway
Cinnamon
Geranium
Rosewood
Base Notes 
Oakmoss
Patchouli
06/13/2015
GothicHeart
85 Reviews
GothicHeart
Helpful Review
9
Erstwhile Joy...
1991 was a strange year.
On May, I answered to a desperate, poetic ad in a heavy metal magazine.
"I can no longer cope with my existence, in my glaring pitch-black territory, wailing endlessly over the end of the world. My future, a little water in your eyes."
A couple of days later I found her waiting outside my door.
On the same night, while she stood by the window, naked and moonlit, she was emanating a bluish, otherworldly aura in the dark room.
She was the most comfortable while naked person I ever met, stripping herself not only from her clothes, but from norms, rules and conventions as well.
She was a heavy smoker, and what's more, she was playing with the ashes in the ashtray during our long talks.
She had her nails always painted in black.
She always wore an old oversized leather jacket over her gypsy dresses.
She had grey, troubled eyes, which were like two shards of her shattered soul, trying to escape her battered body.
She was tacking cloves in her short maroon hair.
Her rough skin was beaming a surreal torrid smell of cummin and milk.
She was acting crazy most of the time, to the point of wondering whether she was posing a threat to herself.
She taught me how important it is to share your last cigarette.
She showed me the melting point of patience, cause a three hour train ride in order to meet her was always feeling like millennia.
Every street urchin knew her by her first name.
She was living in an old house, with a small yard full with carnation bushes.
Her febrile mind was geysering dark poems; each of them a new cicatrice to a heart already covered with scars.
All I recall is that I kept on following her.
I followed her to her small hometown.
I followed her through her jewel making years.
I followed her on a mountainy island in early autumn.
I followed her in a southern Greek island for a week in summer.
I followed her through a song that I wrote for her and she never listened.
I followed her through countless silent whimpers in empty hotel rooms.
But I was too scared to follow her through life.
Her name was, most ironically, Joy.
Jacomo de Jacomo is how she smelled like.
Joy de Jacomo is how I call it ever since...
On May, I answered to a desperate, poetic ad in a heavy metal magazine.
"I can no longer cope with my existence, in my glaring pitch-black territory, wailing endlessly over the end of the world. My future, a little water in your eyes."
A couple of days later I found her waiting outside my door.
On the same night, while she stood by the window, naked and moonlit, she was emanating a bluish, otherworldly aura in the dark room.
She was the most comfortable while naked person I ever met, stripping herself not only from her clothes, but from norms, rules and conventions as well.
She was a heavy smoker, and what's more, she was playing with the ashes in the ashtray during our long talks.
She had her nails always painted in black.
She always wore an old oversized leather jacket over her gypsy dresses.
She had grey, troubled eyes, which were like two shards of her shattered soul, trying to escape her battered body.
She was tacking cloves in her short maroon hair.
Her rough skin was beaming a surreal torrid smell of cummin and milk.
She was acting crazy most of the time, to the point of wondering whether she was posing a threat to herself.
She taught me how important it is to share your last cigarette.
She showed me the melting point of patience, cause a three hour train ride in order to meet her was always feeling like millennia.
Every street urchin knew her by her first name.
She was living in an old house, with a small yard full with carnation bushes.
Her febrile mind was geysering dark poems; each of them a new cicatrice to a heart already covered with scars.
All I recall is that I kept on following her.
I followed her to her small hometown.
I followed her through her jewel making years.
I followed her on a mountainy island in early autumn.
I followed her in a southern Greek island for a week in summer.
I followed her through a song that I wrote for her and she never listened.
I followed her through countless silent whimpers in empty hotel rooms.
But I was too scared to follow her through life.
Her name was, most ironically, Joy.
Jacomo de Jacomo is how she smelled like.
Joy de Jacomo is how I call it ever since...
1 Comment
ChicoRoch1
BrianBuchanan
