POETS OF BENARAS

There's a version of you that wakes up before the city does. Mist still sitting on the water, someone lighting the first fire of the morning. That's this one.

It opens with rose, but not the loud kind. Soft, a little uneven, like it hasn't decided how much of itself to show you yet. Then saffron and cardamom slip in, warm and unhurried, the way chai smells from two stalls away before you've even ordered it. Somewhere in there, smoke. Real smoke, the kind that gets into your hair and stays a while. And underneath everything, musk and warm wood, quiet enough that you almost forget it's there until someone leans in and asks what you're wearing.

It doesn't try to impress anyone. It just sits on your skin the way old cities sit in your memory, a little rough around the edges and completely sure of itself anyway.

You don't wear Poets of Benaras so much as carry it. Like you spent a morning somewhere sacred and never quite washed it off.

For the one who finds poetry in the unpolished parts of things.

Want a shorter caption version off this, or should I try one with less of the "sacred city" framing and more everyday, so it doesn't feel like it only works for one kind of buyer?