You always smelt
of cinnamon
as if it were your natural perfume
again and again
kissing your skin
little beads of perspiration
that I would lasciviously lick
from the back of your neck
your hair
piled up high
entering an empty room
without warning
the cinnamon of you
lingering
announcing you
your presence
clothes scattered across a floor
the invisible essence of you.
You always smelt of
...cinnamon.
And now, many years apart
(all that love) lost
I take a jar
from the spice rack
open it
