Taste's as divine as the first sunrise
a prize on your lips that is sultry
sweet like the bee-hives buzzing in gardens
that have been locked up for years now.
Taste's as poignant as the last scent of you
floating placidly within those old walls
like a ghost haunting the bitter essence
of existence thumping under my shirt.
Taste's as euphoric as the very moment
you open a book and read the first line,
the pages breathe age into your nostrils
while the poem on the last page is filled with
the smell of spring rain.
Winter's sweet snow dances on my head,
I'm still devouring those beautiful meals,
and your hand still warms my body
like the summers' first days
counting backwards
so I never leave.
