AFTERTASTE
Parted lips of quiet burgundy
(silent echoes of a smile) convey
a buoyant salute,
dancing toward the rim of promise
and darting away;
Now the swell of velvet tresses --
whispers of a scentless bouquet --
my palate's fingers
imprisoned
by the shackles of time's relentless decay;
A fancied mist,
touched not --
nor kissed --
and yet . . .