Floral

Acacia smells like a whisper rather than a shout—delicate, powdery, and faintly sweet with a subtle almond-like quality. Imagine walking through a sun-drenched botanical garden where mimosa flowers release their soft, honeyed fragrance into warm air. There's a dry, almost talc-like texture to it, reminiscent of old-fashioned face powder mixed with the faintest hint of vanilla. It's gentle and airy, never cloying, with an almost creamy undertone that feels both comforting and slightly ethereal.

Afghan rose smells like the most honeyed, intoxicating rose imaginable—think of walking through a sun-warmed garden where petals have been baking in heat all afternoon. It's richer and deeper than typical rose notes, with a wine-like sweetness and almost fruity undertones reminiscent of dark berries and dried apricots. There's a subtle spiciness lurking beneath, like clove smoke drifting through velvet. It's indulgent and slightly heady, the scent equivalent of sinking into luxurious fabric rather than smelling something delicate.

African neroli is like capturing the exact moment you bite into a fresh orange blossom—that delicate, almost powdery sweetness with a gentle citrus whisper underneath. Imagine the creamy, slightly indolic heart of white flowers (think jasmine's softer cousin) married with the bright, almost lemony top notes of bitter orange peel. It's ethereal without being soapy, floral without being heavy—more like the ghost of orange blossom than its full, heady presence. There's a soft, honeyed warmth that lingers on your skin.

African violet smells like the green heart of spring—imagine pressing your nose against a velvety flower petal and detecting something simultaneously sweet, slightly powdery, and faintly earthy. There's a whisper of green tea leaf, a delicate floral softness without the heavy perfume of roses, and a hint of cool dampness reminiscent of a plant-filled conservatory. It's more subtle than showy, with an almost soapy cleanliness that feels fresh rather than cloying. Think: the scent of a modest bouquet rather than a heady bloom.

Almond blossom smells like spring itself—delicate, powdery, and creamy with an almost almond-paste sweetness. Imagine walking beneath trees heavy with pale pink flowers on a warm April morning. There's a subtle nuttiness beneath the florality, reminiscent of marzipan or almond milk, blended with a whisper of honey and fresh laundry dried in sunshine. It's tender and slightly green, never heavy or cloying—more whisper than shout.

Angel's trumpet smells like creamy, almost narcotic sweetness—imagine stepping into a tropical greenhouse heavy with intoxicating white flowers. There's an indolic richness (that slightly animalic, fleshy quality found in jasmine and tuberose) paired with buttery, almost coconut-like creaminess. It's honeyed and heady, with a whisper of green, almost soapy freshness underneath. Think of the smell when you bury your face in a gardenia or tuberose at dusk—that dizzying, white-floral intensity that fills an entire room.

Apple blossom smells like spring itself—delicate, powdery, and ethereal. Imagine standing beneath an orchard in bloom: there's a subtle sweetness reminiscent of honey and fresh cream, paired with green, almost watery freshness that feels cool and crisp. It's not fruity like a ripe apple; instead, it's more like inhaling the floral essence before the fruit arrives—slightly aldehydic, with whispers of white florals and a hint of almost almond-like softness. The effect is innocent and gently intoxicating.

Apricot blossom smells like spring itself—delicate and powdery, with a subtle sweetness that's never cloying. Imagine walking through an orchard on a warm April morning: there's a creamy-soft floral quality, almost like almond blossom's gentler cousin, with whispers of honey and stone fruit. It's tender rather than bold, with a faint green undertone that speaks of new leaves. The sweetness feels edible yet ethereal, like breathing in the scent of candied fruit made of clouds.

Black orchid doesn't smell like fresh flowers plucked from a garden. Instead, imagine stepping into a dimly lit room where dark florals have been left to deepen and intensify—there's a velvety, almost creamy sweetness with undertones of powder and earth. It's rather like the scent of dried rose petals mixed with violet leaf, tinged with something almost animalic, slightly sensual, and utterly mysterious. There's a richness here, almost indolic (think the deeper notes of jasmine), without being overtly fruity or bright.

Black rose doesn't smell like a literal rose—it's far darker and more mysterious. Imagine a classic red rose's sweet perfume, but aged in shadows: deeper, slightly dusty, with whispers of dried petals, old leather, and dark plum. There's an almost gothic richness to it, velvety and slightly smoky, as though you're smelling a rose that's been pressed between vintage book pages for years. It carries hints of anise, tobacco leaf, and dark berries—sensual rather than fresh.

Black violet doesn't smell like the delicate flowers you might pick from a garden. Instead, imagine the deep, powdery heart of crushed violet petals—earthy and slightly metallic, with an almost creamy, bittersweet quality. It carries whispers of dark chocolate, tobacco leaf, and old velvet fabric. There's a faint animalic warmth beneath, similar to how warm skin smells after wearing a wool jumper. It's sophisticated and slightly shadowy, far more complex than a cheerful floral.