Cinnamon Dust

“Tell me how you feel” she said.

A soft dying glance danced wistfully upon her cheeks that flickered to my wrist, from time to time. I knew what she was thinking. The clock ticked again.

“There’s this part of me that’s dying” I said. “It’s desperately reaching to breathe. And although it claws and gnaws its way to my surface- I’m there waiting. Again and again. And I drown that scream; bury it with my new toy. It glows sometimes, my toy. I like that. It’s better than the black. The black is never appreciated. Such an apt colour. Too apt. Afterward, I sleep, and the beating red dries. All too soon, small crumbling grains fall freely like cinnamon dust. The satisfaction is dead, and a long numbing wait that deepens endures. Outside, summer dusk is laughing, and the whole world stirs. Dancing leaves pave a calming silhouette. But there’s no flee, there never was. Her careful words echo through my existence, even now. They break walls and boundaries; shattering the still. This heavy mist is summoned, and like a weight to a feather, is dragged down and down, smothering our lungs. There is no sky. A heavy wait. Air. I scramble for air, anywhere. Windows flung open, doors swung freely. Air. Breathe. And a new breath is drawn; one simple freedom from this shackle. I can think straight now. Back to the flame, there are many. And so a new story is fixed to my flesh, and the beating red dries again, whilst the crumbling grains fall once more, like cinnamon dust”.

That’s how I feel.

Cinnamon Dust


Hertfordshire, United Kingdom

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