taste

your taste. the cherry blossoms. the first day of spring. the birth reviving my life. my pulse dimmed but then your fingers brushed along my lower back, along my jaw, along the crane of my neck.

your taste. the maple syrup on the breakfast pancakes. the chirrup ballade of noon sun. my lips frowned a little but then your feet wrapped my toes, held them tight and warm, and your hair tangled near my cheeks.

© simon whittle — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad

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