In the reaching for betterment, there is a taste of truth. What could be, what might be, what may have been. The hope of being ever fulfilled, even if it is but a fleeting moment. The memory of such a time would be celebrated and strived for. The intensity of want through the sweet taste of honey, and sickly sweet words. The gentle glint in a pair of eyes may not fade for the lack of usefulness, having gained their fill before he had reached his. Boisterous thoughts of youth hold less accountability, but there shall not ever be a day where he woke up from the darkness only to find his hands wrapped around a loved one. Voices ever proud and accepting of a man for who he is and not only what he accomplished. Not how things should be done, but grateful for what they are. Gleeful laughter and squealing holding the flavor of peppermint. Playful looks and words, sparking a recalling of cinnamon. Wrinkled sheets holding more warmth than they have the right to do so on their own, with a scent rivaling that of the first rainfall. Cleansing and understanding, even in the words in between. Sunlight and clean, crisp, air without the need of generated recycling filling lungs before the inevitable body slam into the thick, dark recesses of mud.