My brain knows that Timbre smells of citrus and wood, but I am lying in a mineral-crusted bathtub under a desert sky, turning to stone. I am brittle and mica-sparkled, shimmering. A selkie stranded a thousand miles from the sea.

There’s a rasp against the skin, parched lips, a crackle of bleached grass under bare feet, grit layered with the fossils of fish that once swam here. There’s no breeze to stir the branches of a turpentine bush, and this is the only liquid on a dry planet. Submerge and soak, but the heat will take it, evaporate every drop into the endless blue Utah skies and never let it fall again.

Timbre is perfect for a day where even blood-warm water feels cold on sweat-streaked skin, tiger-striped with dust, and only bitter greens can cut through the weight of the air. +

My sample of Timbre was a gift from @chris.rusak.perfume when I bought my beloved 33. And yes, I will probably buy a bottle* once I know how this wears in the long dark of a Scottish autumn.

* of course I did. See below. And it became a regular wear.

originally posted 2 August 2019, footnote December 2025