Sparkatale

Love tastes like love;

It tastes like the warm light of the sun up above.

Love tastes like the way a fragile pedal feels against your skin;

It tastes like the warmth of a hug from those akin.

Love tastes like the lonely smoke you pull into your lungs for a moment of

peace;

It tastes like the lingering smell of a lover on your sheets.

Love tastes like the smooth, porcelain skin of a baby doll;

It tastes like that promised phone call.

Love tastes like a withered daisy chain;

It tastes like the coursing blood through your veins.

Love tastes like the salty wind at the coast;

It tastes like something as simple as buttered toast.

Love tastes like the smell of fresh cut grass in the warm spring air;

It sometimes tastes like a sadness that is too much to bear.

Love tastes like that first drop of rain on your cheek;

It tastes like the feeling of your knees growing weak.

Love tastes like the sound of his squealing pick-up’s brakes;

It tastes like that little skip your heartbeat makes.

Love tastes like the damp cement beneath your tiptoes;

It tastes like the gentle curve of his nose.

Love tastes like the quiet closing of a squeaky front door;

It tastes like maybe just one hit more.

Love tastes like the radiant scarlet of a ladybug’s back;

It tastes like Saturday morning eggs that you cracked.

Love cannot be measured by moments or minutes;

Love is measured by what you’ve done with it.