I'm so close to being ready to open up my heart again.
I can taste it in the back of my throat,
The readiness, not my heart.
My heart isn't in my throat anymore.
But what I want is on the tip of my tongue,
Trying to avoid the spot that tastes bitter.
The problem is I am a romantic
I see every opportunity as a sign
I see every prolonged glance
As a connection
But a glance is more like a brush with something
Not a true connection
Or so my literal self tells me
I don't know exactly what I want
It's been so long since
There was such a selection
Since I ordered for myself a flavour never tasted
I imagine what each will taste like
As if my imagination will do it justice,
Or save me from another bad taste left in my mouth.