Not everyone will have a
palette
like your own
You crave new flavors
no one's ever heard of
The way those tangerine skies
just melt on your tongue
Cottony with golden hues,
it was your divine taste
in how you painted stories
The flavors,  spices and frothy words
made my lips tingle
Your hunger is what really kills me
You fill up on books ever night,
crisp waxy paper sticking to your
delicate fingers
The books pile high and you're still not full
Hunger is always a familiar
feeling
And the stacks of novels never seem to disappoint me with its height