BABY TASTES SWEET LIKE LEMON SCONES
Flavors of a Memory
The lingering aftertaste of whiskey is swept away by the rich thickness of cigar smoke, never quite escaping the confines of my mouth. There's not much sensation, not much to savor, but the flavor remains consistent, relentless, and entirely unforgiving. This spot, this moment in time, will become a memory marked by taste - brutal in flavor, destined, begging to warp and weave into a tale more palatable.
A familiar scent lingers, ultimately it's your flavor that my mouth yearns for, aches for the chance to savor once more. I've neither seen you nor heard of you for years; do not be haste to think that my years don't echo the weight of your absence. I sit here savoring lemon scones and strong Guatemalan coffee, the soft rhythm of music forming a backdrop to my thoughts - a man some might call modern, others Al Green.
The flavors of my past are etched in memory, unchangeable, excruciating, I yearn to sample them once more. To feel the stickiness of syrup on my arms, the crunch of pecans between my teeth. A taste that might, for a fleeting moment, transport me back to days spent with people who might have loved me.
The lingering aftertaste of whiskey is swept away by the rich thickness of cigar smoke, never quite escaping the confines of my mouth. There's not much sensation, not much to savor, but the flavor remains consistent, relentless, and entirely unforgiving. This spot, this moment in time, will become a memory marked by taste - brutal in flavor, destined, begging to warp and weave into a tale more palatable.
A familiar scent lingers, ultimately it's your flavor that my mouth yearns for, aches for the chance to savor once more. I've neither seen you nor heard of you for years; do not be haste to think that my years don't echo the weight of your absence. I sit here savoring lemon scones and strong Guatemalan coffee, the soft rhythm of music forming a backdrop to my thoughts - a man some might call modern, others Al Green.
The flavors of my past are etched in memory, unchangeable, excruciating, I yearn to sample them once more. To feel the stickiness of syrup on my arms, the crunch of pecans between my teeth. A taste that might, for a fleeting moment, transport me back to days spent with people who might have loved me.