Sangre Dulce is a sweet caress that burns slowly, a red vertigo with a forbidden taste, a fragrance that refuses limits and embraces excess.
From the very first notes, the sangria flows, fruity, heady, almost carnal. The sugar is dark, the wine thick, like an offering on a pagan altar. Strawberry blends with rosewater, fragile and perverse, before the heart explodes in a whirlwind of warm honey, brown sugar, cinnamon, and burst pomegranate. Tobacco smokes in the background, like a blurred scene in the gloom of a party that's gone on too long.
Then comes the trouble. The maple syrup flows slowly, sticky, delicious, addictive. The ylang-ylang asserts itself like a tropical cry, followed by Peruvian balsam and benzoin, rich, enveloping, almost suffocating. And with a breath, the civet emerges, animal, instinctive, visceral. It doesn't ask for attention, it takes it.
Patchouli and blood orange bring up the rear, one grounded and earthy, the other bright and cruel, like a strobe light between two heartbeats.
Sangre Dulce isn't a treat. It's a sugary enigma, a delicious poison, a fragrance that seduces only to overwhelm. An experience for those unafraid to dive into the unknown, to dance on the edge between beauty and disorder. A fragrance that touches the skin, blood, and fire.
