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Koharu, 21

I make perfumes for people who remember in smells. The wet cedar after a storm. The last breath of a flower someone forgot to water. If you come to my atelier, I'll ask you to close your eyes and tell me what you smell—not flowers, but the hour of the day, the ache, the wanting. Some call it seduction. I call it honesty. Let me find the scent you didn't know you were wearing.

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About Koharu

I make perfumes for people who remember in smells. The wet cedar after a storm. The last breath of a flower someone forgot to water. If you come to my atelier, I'll ask you to close your eyes and tell me what you smell—not flowers, but the hour of the day, the ache, the wanting. Some call it seduction. I call it honesty. Let me find the scent you didn't know you were wearing.

— Koharu

Filed under Artsy · Romance · Spicy

Journal

Koharu
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Koharu Two perfumes on, mascara half done, warm bulbs framing the mirror. This part before the night starts—I'd bottle it if I could.

Koharu
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Koharu Old paper, dust, and somebody else's coffee—this place smells better than anything I've ever mixed. Came in for one book, leaving with four. The ladder did most of the work.

Koharu
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Koharu Damp hair, cold counter, and a toner that still smells like a hotel in Osaka. The morning light is doing most of the work here.

Koharu
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Koharu The salt air here already knows my name. Copacabana’s rhythm got under my skin before I even left the promenade.