I taste the brightness
Of citrus when she smiles,
Almost like a sunrise.

I taste something mournful
When I remember our midnight conversations.  
Blackberries, dark and bitter,
But as the tang fades,
The stain remains.

People say crying tastes like saltwater.
Yes: the stale sting of sweat on my palms,
Tastes like graphite and desperation,
Like expired mangoes,  
And a voice that won’t stop talking.

I remember the ache of
Evenings, lonely and suffocating.
Mornings that I still wake to
Where I dream of breakfast and
Treat myself to black coffee.

It sounds like a braggart king’s
Biggest lie, the taste of death.
It tastes like showering in the dark,
Like metal and blood that won’t wash off,
Like black coffee when I would
Rather have Cheerios.