sense of cinnamon

the smell of cinnamon cookies, however false they are in actuality, gives me the sense that i'm at your bedside waiting.  but the scent of a memory is just that, a scent, a scant sense of something that existed in a time i'm not sure actually existed.  and you, well, you, with tubes coming out of your nose and a bald head, you never looked like this before.  i can't say if i'm dreaming or if i'm remembering or if i'm predicting.  is it possible for past lives to bleed into the current one?  is it possible to leap ahead in time?

cinnamon scented candle and we are dancing together alone.  some poor rendition of a waltz.  our tongues and lips dyed purple from the red wine your parents gave us as a gift.  they live in napa valley.  you've been drinking wine since you were twelve but you revel in my pixie drunk, all silly drunk and seizing one of your toes beneath mine for a moment.  the wrestling of weights of masses we meld into one another. 

i see you so clearly sometimes.  hair colored cinnamon.  just one image.  the fine soft wisps of your hair pushing against your closed eyes.  the contented curl of your lips sliding along the quiver of soulful violin's serenade.  face softer than the white white sheets beneath you.  you are beautiful.  and when i see you, i know i am destined for a great love.

cinnamon sticks as big as trees.  a black bench in the wintertime, night slowly descending from the sky like snow.  it's quiet.  you pull the glove from my hand and the glove from yours.  summer in the quiet of winter.

i'm on a bus.  i see you for the first time reading a book.  i imagine everything that would come after.  i imagine us translating clouds, telling stories, reading each other to sleep, sharing bowls of oatmeal, heavy with butter and outlined in fissures of cinnamon.   

i am walking alone through a big empty field that looks like a sheet of paper, all white.  i mark it for the first time.  pines begin to fill in the edges and guide me home.  the snow is deep but i don't find it difficult to walk, in fact, i would guess i were floating if it weren't for the depressions i find behind me.  i seem to be walking forever.  i have been walking for an eternity.  but i feel no fatigue.  i only dream of seeing you in our little cabin on the hill making cinnamon cookies.

when i kiss you it tastes like cinnamon.  you smile and my lips feel your teeth.  freckles are scrunched up on your nose and you laugh.  you tickle my sides and i hold you tighter.