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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.

I will remember you.
Will you remember me?
Izzy Jan 29
Cinnamon hearts
And poison darts
No they don’t come with extra parts

I cry in tears of dreadful despair
Thoughts of candy apples danced through the air

I feel the pain on your finger tips
I see the sun and lunar eclipse

I’m blinded by the fact I’m here
I’m surprised I haven’t disappeared

Chocolate shakes
And body aches
Fill me up before I break

So take me away to the home of sweets
Dance of candy apples in the streets
Hope you enjoy!
nevaeh Oct 2020
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
annh May 2020
Buttered parcels filled,
With rose hips and cinnamon;
Heartache’s antidote.

‘Only the pan knows
how the boiling soup feels.’
- Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate
Kay Reed Apr 2020
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.
Ella James Apr 2020
It swivels around me like a tornado

The bitter taste of it

Anxiety.

The kick from it

Betrayal.



How sweet it is

Leaving the pack behind

Getting to call this my own

Fresh, spicy, speciously sweet

A rib cage out of cinnamon and cigarettes.
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.
Grace Haak Oct 2019
cinnamon sugar
your hands mash the crumble cake
warmth fills the kitchen
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