Aftertaste

He never even noticed anymore
the “finish” of the wine, the tang of the salt,
the sweetness of the sugared petit four,
the curry, the chili, or the bitters in his malt.
Not that he minded when flavors stayed behind
and lingered, persistently, subtly, instead
of fading away. Of course, he didn’t mind;
it was the essence of the life he led:
for ever since you said goodbye and shut
that door, ten years ago, June twenty-two,
his whole existence has been nothing but
the ineradicable residue,
the unrelenting flavored déjà vu,
the sweet stupendous aftertaste of you.