Memory has a way of hanging in the air
It leaves little trails of scent wafting
spiraling toward you
Wrapping you up, like an indian samosa,
in trails of yellow spice.
It dances on your tongue,
Sweet and bitter and blue
like a melody of taste, each note made of hard candy
and each measure draped with smoke.
It brushes against you,
rough and damp and cool against your skin
then retreats to its corner.
Where it is forgotten.