Cannabis Lost Island

What starts as warmth turns into something else entirely. Jasmine, raw and bruised. Cognac, not sipped but spilled across skin. A note that wasn’t supposed to be there, but suddenly belongs.

It doesn’t rise off the skin. It stays near it. The kind of scent that lives in a collar, or the memory of being near someone once. And thinking about it for days.

Before the store lights. Before the billboards. Before it becomes something people talk about instead of something you feel.

This is that narrow window — not open to all, not open for long. A moment of stillness before the noise. The scent as it was made: bare, unfiltered, and waiting to be chosen.

It’s about being part of the story before there’s a story to tell.