Taste

Home with her tastes like honey slipping off a spoon—slow, golden, almost too sweet to be real.

It's coffee brewed just right, dark and bold, but softened by that one perfect splash of cream.

There’s warmth, like cinnamon toast on cold mornings, edges crisp but melting at the center.

It tastes like the comfort of rain against the window, of laughter pressed against lips, of words shared in whispers over late-night takeout.

With her, home is a flavor I can't ever pin down.

It’s savory and tender, a bite that lingers long after it’s gone, filling the spaces where silence

used to settle.

It’s the taste of never having to wonder if you belong.