How could I not
be in love
with that pungent trace
she scorched
into my heart?

I’ll be an angel
to the devil
if that makes
her what she
must be.


She comes in so
many tastes,
laying in my hands
like my dearest
casket with spices.

I can not taste her alone …
A taste must be blended
with others, must be
in plural,
never alone!


That taste I am
in love with,
that pungent trace
she keeps scorching
into my heart …

… that taste is
my reminder that love
comes in unique morsels,
to be chewed, relished …
before they are gone.