Taste

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes we get lucky in our endeavors, which leads to yet a deeper yearning.

Submitted: August 14, 2017

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Submitted: August 14, 2017

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We were all drunk that night – the sky just starting to bruise – when I met an artsy piece from New York –

Not your and my New York, but hers. Northern. Small. But she won’t tell you that –

In an outfit she had been wearing all day, walking in to see that man she’d been wearing all month.

She showed me the teeth that not many others had seen, and gave me a name not many others knew.

Months would go by until the next sighting. Again drunk, again with that smile.

Concerned with what others saw, but only second to what she did, I poured care after care into my red cup.

Her spirit held no drink, just a graceful glare that carried her over to me.

To a drunk man’s surprise, calling me by name we embraced and carried our night out of the party and into the street.

Taking the free city seemingly alone, we sauntered about until we found my room.

There, a word of culture locked between two left me father away from her than when I began –

This time with a name, a smile, a taste, and a craving.


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