She tastes like nectar and salt.
Nectar and salt and berries.
Pollen and
stars and hinges.
She tastes like fairy tales.
Swan maiden at midnight.
Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue.
She tastes like hope.
Y. That perfect letter. The wishbone, the fork in the road, left or right, up or down, wrong or right, black or white. The continual question on our lips as we grow up, migrate, move on or stand still. It is both a question and an answer all in one - The empty wineglass, Yes No Maybe. The question we ask over and over. Over.
