Can’t clearly make out
for they come in flashes and after very long intervals,
my wonder illusions, when they come, come blinding
but wide awake on the memory filled by you.
The one lost is not really lost forever, only hard to find.
After a lifetime of food hunting, that taste comes rare,
with its own stamp of fragrance and
leaves nothing else similar to the sense.
This feeling will never cross your way
you had a habit of changing taste for words;
new place, new word, and a shocking aftertaste.
I live on few words and a family flavour handed down.
No surprises or sudden stab on the tip of tongue.
I can still feel the wayward fragrance
of a single word with a spoonful
in just a flash, year after year.
A treasure, which no one else can see, smell or feel,
a gold bullion placed on the invisible sill of memory.
