Moonbeams and Peppermints

pressed to your face—
smells of memory, you say,
smells of memory.
and it tastes, oh it tastes,
of moonbeams and peppermints,
clinging to the tinfoil wrappers
of yesterday’s dinner
like a house on a hill.
if such a thing as
everything
existed, where is it now?
where are you now—
nowhere but in my memory;
pressed to my face—
smells of time, i say,
smells of time gone by.
and it tastes, oh it tastes,
only of goodbye.