I don’t like mango but
I’m compelled to consume
space,
to savor the liquid,
label all the rays
upon my tongue,
such sweet perspicacity.
A citrusy mist
collides with taste
at the speed of sound,
an explosive parade
of chest-bound fate.
I am an imposter
but I taste city lights,
the salty crunch,
a chlorine sting,
a comet tail stuttering,
an aural cascade of sky
falling into place.
