cinnamon

like vanilla bean freckles on your cinnamon hands, i followed the constellations left by saffron strands. i drank lattes every morning when you were gone. i measured the coffee grounds and poured steaming water over the parchment, frothed milk and let it slip into a mug. i sprinkled nutmeg on top, added a stripe of caramel, maybe. honey or cardamom or sugar if i was feeling fancy. i held those mugs so gently, placed them so lightly on the wooden nightstand. like chamomile and rose petals steeped for hours, i stained myself with memories. of you, of driving in the middle of the night, of reaching for the moonlight even when it disappeared behind the dense clouds. i let you have my leather jacket. i stuffed notes in the pockets and waited for you to unfurl them like roses, yet you never sent a reply. i tell these stories to your ghost: the days when you were away, when the shadows came too quickly, when time and mugs fell from my hands as if i was made of feathers.