I imagine it tastes like roses
and sunflowers and sea mist and you.
Every time I’m about to say it, I swallow it back and
It turns sour anew. Every time.
It turns bitter
whether from holding it back or coating it in
falsities, I haven’t a clue. I just know it tastes of you right
before it turns sour and blue.

I suppose that might mean that of all the things
I love about you,
I just don’t…
Happen to
Love you.

Are we fooling ourselves—
lying in between bed sheets lying
in between lying tongues between teeth lying
dying to belong when really, were just denying truth.
Maybe we are comfortable.
comfortable and bored and
comfortable and content in our complacency
content in our lack of content-ment—
maybe it meant we weren’t meant to be.
Maybe when I open my mouth
to speak, what I really taste is defeat and

everything it tastes like not to love you.