Taste is scent, flavor and touch, and the rarest purity of taste is apprehended in darkness and silence; and there is a taste of love, as unique and tangible and recognizable as that of vanilla or cinnamon or oranges.
Those who have never tasted it may not recognize it as it seeps through lips or skin or rumpled sheets: but once tasted it is never forgotten, and the desire for it is corporeal, a craving that surpasses addiction.
It is not the taste of a person, of the moisture that rises from the creases of the body, of hair, or of the alcoholic bitter taste of a perfume’s lingering trace.
It comes from nowhere but suddenly it’s on your tongue and your body awakens as though an electric current has been passed through it; and you feel hunger like you’ve never felt it before, a carnal appetite, an awakened desire.
We can take photographs and record sound, but there is no mechanical device that can replay the touch of a finger running down my nape, the breath of a darkened sea cooling the sweat on one’s cheeks, the wild scent of foliage slick with night-time dew, and the sea, the broad stroke of an oil brush glistening as though fresh from the tube, the horizon-line almost indistinguishable as it melts into a huge empty night: the taste of love from the nearness of touch, adrift in the sea’s salt waft as old as the world, older than mankind, older than the invention of love.
(The Mad Tea Party - Clinton Palaca)