You're scent is best forgotten. Yet I remember your cinnamon hair, Everytime the breeze carried the warm smell to my nose I smiled. Because it meant you were still there with me. We weren't in love, Because we are and were, too young to be having such big emotions. But I know that whenever I catch the scent of cinnamon on an afternoon autumn breeze.
it feels like you came with the cold like suddenly you fell from the autumn sky and warmed me up inside. i wanted you for your fiery red before i found myself like an addict, craving you at the most inopportune times craving your comfort like a warm sweater in december. i love you without the all sugar on top even bitter and dry and burning my tongue coating my throat until i choke with tears on my cheeks. i wanted you before i knew what it meant but even after you hold my mind hostage keeping me breathing and warm.
i could never live without you. not at all.
the real og's will remember this one - reposted poetry because i used to be better at this
its 7:45am and i'm barefoot in my grandparents kitchen freshly brewed coffee steams in my grandfather's mug as cinnamon rolls bake in the oven. the tile is cold. his smile is warm.
he lets me lick the spoon after he spreads the icing. we pretend to fight over the best roll, he lets me win.
today, i was alone in my kitchen in a different state. my coffee was mixed with bailey's and it steamed in my mug. i bake the same brand of cinnamon rolls in my oven. the tile is cold. i smile at the thought of him.
i lick the icing off the spoon out of habit, its almost too sweet. i don't have to fight for the best one.
Cinnamon winters the rolls. If my past childhood memories serve me correctly. Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow leaves a sweet kiss behind. My lips follows, with an expected sigh. To again taste one of many... the many tasty treasures left behind by the Elusive divine. In that very moment; where the sweet cinnamon lubricates my feisty lips. All is ******* history. Isn't it? And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure with many sinful bites. Smoked a cigarette afterwards. There was a no smoking sign. Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix. On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived. a few crumbs in its wake still exists. Confusion is typical of this kind of ish. When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014 by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Consciousness pouring out of me disguised as words. I am craving cinnamon rolls.