Frequently Asked Questions about Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs
What does Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs smell like?
Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs features top notes of Peach, Plum, and Raspberry, middle notes of Jasmine, Orris Root, and Rose Hip, and base notes of Amber, Bitter Orange, and Pineapple.
Who created Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs?
Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs was created by Alia Raza.
When was Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs released?
Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs was released in 2024.
Is Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs for men or women?
Based on user reviews, Crushed Fruits by Régime des Fleurs is a unisex fragrance that works well for all genders.
Crushed Fruits, from Régime des Fleurs was released in 2024. The perfumer behind this creation is Alia Raza. It has the top notes of Peach, Plum, and Raspberry, middle notes of Jasmine, Orris Root, and Rose Hip, and base notes of Amber, Bitter Orange, and Pineapple.
Crushed Fruits from Regime des Fleurs shimmers and unfurls like an overripe reverie, fruit flesh and flowers awakening from brandy-soaked slumber; an ultraviolet tumble of plums, an infrared rush of raspberries, a kaleidoscopic cascade woven through the fold of a forgotten black velvet painting, glossy and dripping and beckoning with the urgency of a thousand hummingbird hearts. That 1970s canvas time-shifts into a 1990s dress, empire-waisted, bell-sleeved, phantom filigree choker at the throat, echoes of stompy boots, an ambery oxblood slash of Spice or Black Honey staining ghost-lips. A current of boozy bitterness and dusky incense, a smoky scent of hazy late neon nights bleeding into dawn, of kisses that taste like vintage lipstick from a dream you haven't had yet but always remember the moment before waking.
Crushed Fruits from Regime des Fleurs shimmers and unfurls like an overripe reverie, fruit flesh and flowers awakening from brandy-soaked slumber; an ultraviolet tumble of plums, an infrared rush of raspberries, a kaleidoscopic cascade woven through the fold of a forgotten black velvet painting, glossy and dripping and beckoning with the urgency of a thousand hummingbird hearts. That 1970s canvas time-shifts into a 1990s dress, empire-waisted, bell-sleeved, phantom filigree choker at the throat, echoes of stompy boots, an ambery oxblood slash of Spice or Black Honey staining ghost-lips. A current of boozy bitterness and dusky incense, a smoky scent of hazy late neon nights bleeding into dawn, of kisses that taste like vintage lipstick from a dream you haven't had yet but always remember the moment before waking.