do you remember

the place

where the trees

stretch out

like hands

interlocked

sunset dripping

onto the

distant hills

quilt spread

over the

grass and bugs

the twitter

of a sleepy

songbird

scratchy wool

sweaters

against skin

and the

distant

scent of

s w e e t

c i n n a m o n

The taste of cinnamon on his lips

And on his tounge

Are sweet, yet also savory.

As our lips and tounges intertwine,

I take in the gentle taste

And feel of him

With the taste of cinnamon

To add an extra layer

Of sweetness and fire.

His love for me

Is shown through

The gentle touches and kisses

That we exchange when just relaxing

And the passionate, yet firey

Kisses we exchange

While hiding from the public eye.

Being with him

Is like a never-ending adventure

Filled with ups and downs,

That I never want to end.

Memory flood of holidays

Comfort foods to ease my days

Evocative of exotica

Simple

Spice

“Iconica”

i tell the cinnamon my secrets

it listens and tells me it loves me and

it'll be okay

and finally

i rise again,

finding that there's

worlds to conquer.

but when there's cinnamon there's an

ache in that pretty little head

of yours.

but when there's cinnamon,

there's you,

engulfing me in a soft embrace

and gingerly brushing my hand with

your tender fingers

and entangling me in a warm forest

with the vines of that pretty hair of yours.

cinnamon,

that pile of delicious dust,

slows my heart and

gently liberates that clogged river

flowing freely,

dripping from my chin to

the cold floor beneath.

and i know you'll wrinkle that cute

little nose at the mention of

cinnamon,

and i know in spite of it all,

when i stand in the shadow

of night with the

pale light of

early morning creeping through the

curtains,

clutching desperately a jar of

cinnamon

against my chest,

i'll be warmed with the

presence of you.