tāst

Is a playground,

A sandbox where your best friends await.

tāst

Is a studio with paint-splattered floors,

Sweeping brush strokes on taut canvas,

A portrait of your good side.

tāst

Is a masterpiece.

A sketch in crayon in a child’s notebook.

Folded into a crane. Or a paper airplane.

tāst

Is a flight.

Fifty-thousand feet in the air. Fifty feet from the ground.

An eject button. A parachute.

A place to land.

tāst

Is a second chance at laughter.

A first chance at love.

A last chance at hitting the lottery.

tāst

Is a winning ticket.

Your lucky numbers.

tāst

Is a fortune inside a cookie printed with a typo.

All that matters is inside.

tāst

Is your uncle’s fedora.

Your grandma’s church crown. Fresh & fitted.

The bent bill of a snapback.

tāst

Is a masterpiece.

A backpack full of every book.

Epics, encyclopedias, nursery rhymes.

tāst

Is the best story ever told.

Ever.

By anyone.

Especially by you.

But tāst

Is not coffee.