Bed of Roses

Inorganic Chemists' Farewell

Your name

is a mint pastille melting in my mouth.
Stuck right at the tip of the tongue:
flavour diffusing, taste buds tingling.
Uttered repeatedly, voicelessly, scurrying
Like an unfinished mantra,
wishing to conjure you up
right here, right now.
Like you,
your name is illusive,
minty cold, but temperature's the same.
Excuse me, the aftertaste's disappearing;
I'm going to need another helping.