You will forget things like
the timbre of my voice – slow breathing,
lost in fervent dreams.
Constellations of freckles on my skin.
But the quiet scent of butter and shallots,
cream infused with garlic bubbling golden brown;
a purple patina of wine on chicken flesh;
the sweetness of honeyed carrots and not my lips
will come to bite you every time.
Will drag you back to when I nourished
And you ate.
Your mouth yearns to taste me long after I’m gone.
