spice

Blood vessels hum inside my nostrils at warm cinnamon wafting through the room. Winter, fall, cozy curling up in a space that’s full of love and family and the blissful daze after a big meal. The carpet is clean and vacuumed. Silk pillows neatly stacked in the corner. I want to sprinkle at little bit of this everywhere, just in case I’m in some sort of serotonin future drought. The watering hole of the mind that sometimes comes up empty like dry river beds on the African plain. Where dirt is dust, and sand is commonplace. I pray for rains. A deluge to bring me home through its current. Whether that’s tears, or a page in a notebook, a letter to myself; Writing home. You sometimes don’t need stamps for that. Forgetting the obvious and recalling that if you just spin the top this reality can soon melt away. And rules of physics you thought were undeniable can suddenly change. To step on pavement that gives like gum. There is more to realize I think now. Stepping away after a long trip. Bags inside factories, cash crops of nations. I seal my envelopes with my saliva still. The nasty sweet.