you said my love tastes like
secret dinnertime texts and sweet red wine,
the reckless beginning of a new year,
and the gentle swell of hope
at the promise of something more

but your love tastes like
the burn of whiskey and the ash of cigarettes,
bitter disappointment and regret,
and birthday kisses gifted on
the mouth of someone else

they say that poison tastes so sweet;
tell me, why don't you?