Flavor and Memory

There is a flavor I miss – a hint of something at the back of the tongue, a spicy scent muted by congestion. I feel as if it is almost there, resting just above the tastebuds, drifting around the teeth. It is like it’s waiting for the right word, the right phrase to call it into being.
It reeks of nostalgia, this missing flavor. It is reminiscent of frost on November leaves, of burning cloves, of crispness and time. I remember the color of a sky – a blue so thin it could break. That and a breeze, so cool, but old-bone dry. I can feel it, too – grit on the skin, smoke in the eyes.Trying to grasp this flavor leaves me shivering, dizzy. My fingers, they twitch as goosepimples rise.



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