Coriandre has got the hazy, soft-edged quality of an old Polaroid left too long in the sun. A warm, grassy summer day recalled through the yellowed veil of memory. There's a brittle, bitter dreaminess threaded through it, like dusty butterfly wings pinned to a bed of soft, curling moss. It's dry and woody and musky and I think it smells a bit like a lovely little secret that you might never be ready to share - the kind that quickens your heart and warms your skin just for keeping it.