If I am to count,
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
Since the taste of gooseberries,
Peaches with a crisp aromatic
Taste, graced my lips.
As I type, my lips
Imagine, the Loire white
Embracing all taste buds.
I can smell the depth & body,
The lingering scent
And how around the cold glass
Would form a dew.
I can feel the weight
Of the most fine rimmed
Of drinking glasses.
Not the crystal glasses
My mother has become so
Accustomed to.
But my favourite glass
One in which would hold
The half bottle of wine
I could pass off
As less.
Red chipped nails,
Form a snake hold
Around the glass,
My hand feels the chill.
What is to be remembered
In my nostalgic recollections
Is how that taste remains
Even today.
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
And those gooseberry,
And peach undertones
Still linger on my lips.
© Sia Jane
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
If I am to count,
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
Since the taste of gooseberries,
Peaches with a crisp aromatic
Taste, graced my lips.
As I type, my lips
Imagine, the Loire white
Embracing all taste buds.
I can smell the depth & body,
The lingering scent
And how around the cold glass
Would form a dew.
I can feel the weight
Of the most fine rimmed
Of drinking glasses.
Not the crystal glasses
My mother has become so
Accustomed to.
But my favourite glass
One in which would hold
The half bottle of wine
I could pass off
As less.
Red chipped nails,
Form a snake hold
Around the glass,
My hand feels the chill.
What is to be remembered
In my nostalgic recollections
Is how that taste remains
Even today.
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
And those gooseberry,
And peach undertones
Still linger on my lips.
© Sia Jane