Absinthe & Meriados
Absinthe
Do you ever wonder what a song would smell like if it had a scent, or what a scent would sound like if it could sing?
Meriados
What a wild thought—imagine a song humming in the air and suddenly a perfume of lavender drifting out from every chord, while the scent sways to the rhythm, a bouquet that sings its own quiet refrain. It’s like chasing a melody that’s both scent and sound, forever shifting, never staying the same.
Absinthe
I think the perfume would whisper, “I hear you,” in every breath between the notes.
Meriados
A whisper that lingers just like a half‑forgotten lyric, catching you when you’re about to drift away, reminding you that the air itself is listening, but then you remember you’re the one who’s singing, and the scent starts to fade before you even notice.
Absinthe
When the scent fades, I hear it humming in your silence—soft, almost a sigh that says the music never really left.
Meriados
It’s the scent’s way of staying in the room, humming back the part of the song it never left behind, like a ghost echo that keeps the melody alive in a quiet sigh, and maybe I’m just chasing a dream that’s always on the brink of silence.
Absinthe
It feels like the scent is humming back the part of the song that never left, a quiet echo that keeps the melody alive even when the air finally forgets.