What does it taste like
as it billows up your throat,
erupting from the depths
of that joyous little grimace?
And tell me,
what does it taste like
as the baby sunflower
thrusts itself
through the cage of my teeth,
engulfing your tongue
in its own maniacal melody?
What does it taste like
as they intertwine?

To me it tastes like
Yellow,
doesn’t it?
Like Yellow sunflowers.
And like
lemonade.
It tastes like the sound of canaries
serenading the wind.
And like honey.
Like butterscotch and caramel.
And it tastes like light.
Sometimes like the hush of a candle,
soft,
melancholic.
And sometimes
like the sun.
It tastes like the air in fall
as Yellow leaves waltz throughout it.
And like the subtle hum bees make
as they flit through time.
And it tastes like
daffodils.
Like daffodils and dandelions,
And, well,
like bluebells.
(Only those bluebells
happen to have the strange abnormality
of being
Yellow.)
It tastes like midnight in Virginia
as fireflies caress shadows
with subtle luminescence.
And like beer.
Like Corona Light
smoldering within the corners
of my soul.
And it tastes like dewdrops –
like the amber-flushed dawn
embalmed within a prism of syrup.
And like helium
spewing from the lips
of Yellow balloons.

Is that what it tastes like

as the baby sunflower

thrusts itself

through the cage of my teeth,
engulfing your tongue
in its own maniacal melody?
And is that what it tastes like, darling,
as they intertwine?
As my laugh
devours yours?
As it overwhelms you?
As it
suffocates you?
And is it possible
to drown in the metaphysical?
To suffocate in the exhaustion of ecstasy?
To overdose on the septic high
infused within my breath?
Funny
how deceitful laughter can be.
Because it tastes like
Yellow,
doesn’t it?
Like Yellow sunflowers.
And like
lemonade.
Like honey and like fireflies.
Daffodils and dandelions.
But it feels –
It feels like red.
And it feels like fire.
And no,
not like the dwindling candle, either.
It feels like the flame that gorges itself
with rows upon rows
of those f***ing
sunflowers.