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When I'm by myself,
I hum a little melody.
Sometimes it's sweet,
so the taste of strawberries
lingers for just a little while longer.
Most of the time,
I mix it with a little bit of lime,
just for a sour rush.
My eyes squeeze themselves shut
with each pang of flavour.
An explosion occurs,
and the melody becomes
a mixture of sounds
going from flat
to sharp
to everywhere in between.
I pray it stays a little longer,
so that I can remember the taste
every morning.
Yet, each morning,
a new melody starts in my head. I remember dreaming of blueberries
and lemon,
of papayas and oranges,
mangoes and carrots;
anything bursting with life.
I become my own cocktail,
but I leave my own whiskey
out of the equation.
