Taste

I can’t explain it.
I just know when something feels right.

A chipped mug over a fancy glass.
Muted colors over neon.
A book with creased pages over something new and untouched.

It’s not about perfect.
It’s about feel.

Taste comes from the moments I’ve lived.
The streets I’ve walked.
The music I’ve cried to at 2 a.m.
The people I’ve loved and lost.

Sometimes I choose things that make no sense to anyone else.
And I like that.
It’s mine.
It’s a little piece of me.

Taste changes,
but the feeling doesn’t.

It’s a pull in the gut.
A quiet yes.
A soft this is it.

Blessed.