I am bored of my taste

I see people in a small cafe next to my tiny apartment.

An elderly couple with matching gray for their hair, greet each other with a peck on lips. I wonder what they tasted then? He must have tasted the faint bitterness of the coffee she was sipping earlier, and she dry staleness because he drank a whole glass of water as he sat.

A very busy barista with pouty lips, and golden hair. Few of those golden strands stuck to her neck because of the sweat she was oozing out. She must taste like lipsticks, and fresh salt. Her eyes catch the glimpse of a tall figure.

A tall man with a neat gray stubble, in a gray polo and green khakis has an aura around him. Everybody in that small cafe could smell his presence, I am sure he tastes like sandalwood and sophistication.

A poet in me is bored of my own taste. I wonder how I taste like, to other people. Do people miss kissing me, as I miss kissing people?