mayawrites

Cinnamon reminds me of the chill autumn air,

When you flee in the sparks of a spiteful glare.

Flying through the breeze, subtle hint of a scent,

Of respect, or lack thereof, troubled and discontent.

As I walk in confident strides, cinnamon’s perfume,

Engrosses me once more into your manipulative tune.

The touch of cinnamon’s warmth, in the cold airy sky,

Makes me resent myself, for your merciless goodbye.

I’m the spice in cinnamon, and you’re the sweet.

Destined to complement. Yet you run, indiscreet.

We’re perfect. We’re ginger. We’re cinnamon.

Until we’re not, alibis to innocuous citizen.