In the quiet corners of the mind,
Where time and memories gently unwind,
There’s a place where flavors linger still,
On the tongue, the heart, the soul's will.

A taste of joy, a hint of sorrow,
The sweetness of today, the bitterness of tomorrow.
Through every bite, a story is told,
Of moments young, of days grown old.

I remember the apples, warm from the tree,
Golden and red, as sweet as could be.
Biting into summer, sunlight in each chew,
The world seemed endless, a sky so blue.

But time moves forward, as time will do,
And seasons shift their endless hue.
The apples are gone, but the taste remains,
A subtle echo, a lingering stain.

Then the bread—fresh, soft, and warm,
Baked by hands that could weather any storm.
The scent of yeast, a mother’s embrace,
Her laughter echoing in that sacred space.

I can still hear the rhythm of the kneading,
The steady pulse, the warmth succeeding.
Each loaf a prayer, each slice a gift,
In the quiet moments when spirits lift.

But the bread is no longer in the air,
Only the memory, soft and rare.
Yet still, I taste it when I close my eyes,
A piece of love that never dies.

There’s the honey, thick and golden bright,
Dripped on pancakes, bathed in morning light.
Each drop a memory of voices soft and kind,
The innocence of youth, the peace we’d find.

I see the table, set so neat,
The honeycomb gleaming, warm and sweet.
And though the years have passed us by,
The taste remains, no matter how dry.

But not all tastes are sweet, you know,
Some hold the sting of a deeper woe.
The dark chocolate, the bittersweet bite,
That mirrors life in its darkest night.

I recall the nights we tried to pretend,
That sorrow was just a fleeting friend.
The salt on our lips, the tears in our eyes,
The quiet goodbyes, the whispered lies.

The salt of tears in the soup we shared,
A taste of pain, of love once dared.
But every tear, like salt in the...