If our youth is subject to
the landscape of a ticking clock
You are the second hand
can't sit still even for a moment

How do things like you find an end?
Maybe in the space before another's beginning
or when a song meets it's crescendo

There is nothing sweet about it
even in salt's absence
I guess therefor life is without flavor
it's consumption only a necessity

Though the moon does not claim taste buds
water takes lives
youth will not fit between the cheeks
of you and I.