Love Tastes Like
Loves tastes like bacon.
The way you tell me you don't eat pork and I jokingly nudge yes. you do, actually. & although I despise turkey bacon, I know and appreciate first-hand that your diet isn't trash. It tastes like making it our mission to try every chicken and waffle the city had to offer. It tastes like the look on your face when you discovered you'd wasted your entire life eating pancakes when French toast exists. It tastes like me bringing IHOP to your job on my off days.
Love tastes like Sunday.
Brunches with bottomless mimosas. And that shrimp and grits combo you wouldn't let me leave the city without trying, although I insisted I didn't like grits. It tastes like those soul food dinners at grandma's house that turned into First Sunday's at Rif's during my adult years.
Love tastes like water.
At times it's not the most exciting. But it's necessary in all its contentment. It nourishes me. It's refreshing and cleanses me in those vital moments. It tastes like healing the hurt that tasted of blood from a blow to the mouth. It tastes like what grounds me after nights that may have gotten a bit too exciting.
Love tastes like unknowns.
It tastes like you ordering on my behalf from a foreign menu or my newfound obsession with gazos— attempting to smuggle them back to my dorm room.
It tastes like the sour are you still texting bitches? yes or no? It tastes like the discomfort of are we doing this? Or the filling satisfaction of damn, look at how far we've come. It tastes of an overwhelming Thanksgiving itis when I look up and you're looking at me and I can't help but wonder what I've done to deserve the blessing that is you. It tastes like an explosion of flavors. The bitters, the sweets, the sours, but always always savory.
Love tastes familiar.
It tastes like the way you say my middle name when you're stern. When we fight. When you miss me. When you want me. It tastes of the way I smile when you show me our text correspondence to prove a point and it still reads Shanae after all these years. It must taste like the back of my neck when you surprise me in the shower. It tastes of the flavor you try to guess from my gloss. It tastes like us always finding our way back to Mary Mack's. You tell me you're eating clean so you can't have the complimentary cinnamon rolls, but I convince you to smash four with me anyway. It tastes of nights that wreaked of tequila and big bottles of honey jack. It tastes like all those times I bit your lip to the point of bruising. Or those. fucking. sandwiches. you make for me at 4am when I interrupt you right before the point of REM to say that I'm hungry. At first hunger was a reality, but it soon turned into me loving to watch the scratches on your back vanish down the stairs. & you'd reappear with some gourmet deli slices— tomato, lettuce, and whatever cheese and spread you could whip up in 10 minutes. Yes, love definitely tastes like those sandwiches.