perhaps it is the way you smell when i lay my head on your steady chest.

 the people we were last night will watch us through our bedroom window. we’re not the same, and that’s neutral. 

perhaps it was cinnamon, less than we ever thought. 

    the butterflies in my stomach turned to moths ages ago. 

            by all of the gods and goddesses, it was cinnamon.

Read and leave comments (0)