The Next Seventy Years

You taste like a sleepy, messy-haired, bare-toes, yawn over a cup of steaming coffee on a chilly Saturday morning. You taste like a rumpled cotton t-shirt and threadbare shorts sitting on the kitchen counter laughing at a joke I told you two days ago. You taste like a too-hot-latte, warming my frozen fingertips on an October day. You taste like fresh pancakes and giggles in bed. You taste like the next seventy years of my life.