Small things always meant the most to me, the miniscule
bites of happiness that left my tastebuds
salivating for more. I could lick my lips and still taste
every morsel like I was experiencing it for the very first time.

It tasted like the vanilla ice cream cone you had waiting
for me outside of the park bathroom, rainbow
sprinkles melting down my fingers as we raced the sun.

It tasted like the time we broke night playing video
games, both of us taking turns and laughing
endlessly as I died five minutes in, stealing
kisses when I would hand the controller back to you.

It tasted like the days you taught me to play handball, your patience
never running thin when I would strike the ball too hard across
the court, hands and eyes never in sync. 

It tasted like the day we picnicked in Astoria Park, the buzz
of cheap wine putting you to sleep as I scratched
your head nestled in my lap while the squirrels
tried to steal our food.

These moments sat under my tongue, rested on the roof of my mouth,
anxiously awaiting to be ingested. I wanted to savor them, the
appetizer before the main course. I never wanted it to end.