This is the first time I’ve posted here, so I’m fairly nervous. I love constructive critisism though, so load it on. I’m for anything. This poem seem skind of cliched to me. I’m not quite sure why. I posted it here partly to see if others feel the same way.
Every time I sneeze, I taste him.
The dirt and pine pushed forward,
from that late night in the star lit forest.
the bubbled bacon,
and mold-sweet sprinklers.
of more innocent days,
of sandy feet and dirt jammed finger nails,
when it was just him and I.
Sweat and bat droppings curdle,
coming up from the back of my throat.
With a spasm of my chest I relive our moments.
Like a video for my senses.
I cough, I gag, and wriggle my nose,
praying yet again that,
Ill at least get a sampling of our times,
and the tangy memories will return.
Praying I can taste him.