I has a flavour. But it's probably too little to savour. There's sweet, salt, bitter and sour. Plus a ring of oral receptors that capture the lipsmacking sense of liquid aminos bound in the fibres of dead flesh and the fermenting cells of fungal spores.
Much more complex yet unnoted is the remnant skill that resides in our nostrils, a hangover from tails of ancestors who tasted the air for clues to ripening consumables and the opportunity for carnal rites. There is nothing left of the bloodlust that permits the pursuit of prey over an invisible trail of fatal footsteps. But in the whiff of skin up close, by the nape and small of the neck, a quantum of irresistible synapses ignite to taunt repressed pangs that no longer bear fulfillment.
The musky deepness sinks in. Unchanged. Undisturbed by fresh layers of fragrant follies. It occupies a neural niche so embedded in this conscience that retrieval is elusive and relief brings pain. And every now and then, the faint odour of recollection triggers a mnemonic relapse into lost moments of shared spaces. There is no escape, it seems, from the power of pheromones.
You too must excuse me for daring to release the animal in your midst. Smelling, sniffing, snorting, savouring. I need to sense that olfactory glow of intimate ease, of pores that exude the damp passion of postponed urges. Of close bodies soaked in the lukewarm tea of unleavened words. Of eyes lost in the sleep of awakened bliss. And silly thoughts that lead to phrases of sweet nothings. In that whiff of skin up close, in that brief headspace of aroma, I see more than you know. More than I dare to hope. And maybe a little of what we desire but dare not dream of.