Cigar Rum is a slow incantation. An ode to the warmth of a Caribbean evening, to the golden light that glides across the glass and clings to the skin. It's the whisper of a slowly burning cigar, the syrupy glow of an old rum, the memory of a night that never ends.
It all begins with a brief burst of clarity, mandarin, as vivid as a burst of laughter, cleaves the air before disappearing into a sea of dark fruits: ripe grape, candied plum, black cherry. They roll off the tongue like memories of a forgotten feast, sweet, deep, almost heady. Then comes the smoke. It rises, dense and elegant, carried by tobacco, which embraces the rum like a promise whispered in the shadows. It is a fiery heart, a breath of burnt velvet.
And night falls, in the folds of the oak wood, in the dry lands of vetiver. The resins ignite one by one, benzoin, labdanum, ancient balsams, leaving behind an amber, resinous, almost sacred trail. Then an unexpected breath, a breeze of seaweed, fresh and salty, comes to brush against this world of fire and sugar, as if to remind us that even the most intimate perfumes are born somewhere at the water's edge.
Cigar Rum is not just a fragrance. It's an atmosphere, a ritual, a secret shared between skin and memory. It's not worn; it's experienced, like a last sip from the bottom of the glass, sweet, bitter, unforgettable.
