Cinnamon and Smoke

across the rain-slicked rooftop, cinnamon spots the stranger their silhouette sharp against the city's sodium glow the chill of rain soaks through thin cotton to skin each breath hangs visible in the damp air

each breath hangs visible in the damp air cinamon's fingers trace the condensation on their whiskey glass the amber liquid trembles with the bass thrumming below their eyes lift and catch on smoke-grey irises

their eyes lift and catch on smoke-grey irises the world contracts to this single point of contact cinamon's lips part, a silent oh swallowed by distance raindrops trace cold paths down their neck, under their collar

raindrops trace cold paths down their neck, under their collar memory flickers—a hotel room, hours blurring into days the stranger's hands mapping every freckle, every scar cinamon's back arching, pressing into the heat of them

cinamon's back arching, pressing into the heat of them the stranger's teeth finding sensitive skin, marking it cinamon's fingers twisting in sweat-damp sheets their hips moving in desperate, synchronous rhythm

their hips moving in desperate, synchronous rhythm the air thick with shared breath and urgent sounds cinamon's nails dig into broad shoulders, leaving crescents the stranger's voice, rough and broken, begging for more

the stranger's voice, rough and broken, begging for more cinamon's own cries echo off sterile walls their body strung tight as a bowstring, quivering release crashes over them in relentless waves

release crashes over them in relentless waves cinamon collapses forward, forehead to heaving chest the stranger's arms come around them, holding them together their heartbeats slow, syncopated against each other

their heartbeats slow, syncopated against each other drowsy kisses are pressed to cinamon's temple, their jaw the stranger's scent—bergamot and burnt sugar—fills their senses cinamon's eyes drift shut, safe in this temporary harbor

cinamon's eyes drift shut, safe in this temporary harbor dawn's grey light filters through half-open blinds the stranger's side of the bed is cold, long abandoned only the phantom ache of their touch remains

only the phantom ache of their touch remains cinamon finds a single hair on the pillowcase—smoke-grey they wind it around their finger, a fragile keepsake the scent of cinnamon and smoke still clinging to the sheets

the scent of cinnamon and smoke still clinging to the sheets cinamon breathes it in, letting it fill their lungs memory overlays reality, the stranger's presence almost tangible their fingers twitch, aching to touch what isn't there

their fingers twitch, aching to touch what isn't there phantom sensations ghost across cinamon's skin the stranger's mouth hot and open against their throat cinamon's head tipping back, baring themself to the imagined caress

cinamon's head tipping back, baring themself to the imagined caress rain lashes the window, a counterpoint to their desire the city's lights blur beyond the glass, streaks of color cinamon's hand slips beneath the elastic of their boxers

cinamon's hand slips beneath the elastic of their boxers their breath catches, fingers finding sensitive flesh the stranger's name forms on cinamon's tongue, unsaid they bite their lip, eyes squeezing shut against the rising tide

they bite their lip, eyes squeezing shut against the rising tide the sheets twist around cinamon's legs, binding them their hips rock into their own touch, chasing release the memory of the stranger's voice urges them on, low and rough

the memory of the stranger's voice urges them on, low and rough cinamon's pace quickens, their breath coming in sharp gasps their free hand fists in the pillow, knuckles white the phantom sensation of teeth at their pulse point drives them higher

the phantom sensation of teeth at their pulse point drives them higher cinamon's back arches, muscles straining the world narrows to this single point of pleasure their body tenses, poised on the edge of something vast

their body tenses, poised on the edge of something vast release crashes over cinamon in a blinding wave they cry out, the sound swallowed by the empty room their body shudders, again and again, as the wave recedes

their body shudders, again and again, as the wave recedes cinamon lies spent, breath ragged in the quiet the scent of cinnamon and smoke hangs heavy in the air their skin cools, damp with sweat and the memory of rain

their skin cools, damp with sweat and the memory of rain the stranger's absence is a physical ache in cinamon's chest they curl in on themself, seeking a warmth that isn't there the city's lights flicker beyond the window, indifferent

the city's lights flicker beyond the window, indifferent cinamon's eyes drift shut, exhaustion pulling them under the ghost of the stranger's touch lingers on their skin tomorrow, they'll rise and write, spinning desire into words

tomorrow, they'll rise and write, spinning desire into words the stranger will live again in ink and metaphor cinamon's hair will smell of cinnamon, their fingers stained the memory of smoke-grey eyes will haunt every line

the memory of smoke-grey eyes will haunt every line the rooftop will become legend, the rain a baptism cinamon's words will bleed desire onto every page the stranger, forever captured in the spaces between

the stranger, forever captured in the spaces between cinamon's heart beats a steady rhythm, a drum of longing the city breathes around them, vast and unknowable the scent of cinnamon and smoke fades with the dawn

the scent of cinnamon and smoke fades with the dawn cinamon rises, the sheets pooling around their waist they move to the window, their breath fogging the glass the city sprawls below, rain-washed and glistening

the city sprawls below, rain-washed and glistening cinamon's fingers trace the path of a raindrop on the pane the memory of the stranger's silhouette sharpens, vivid their ink-stained fingers itch for pen and paper

their ink-stained fingers itch for pen and paper cinamon turns from the window, purpose settling over them the words come unbidden, spilling from their lips "smoke-grey eyes in a sodium haze, the rain a cold caress—"

"smoke-grey eyes in a sodium haze, the rain a cold caress—" the poem takes shape, raw and aching and alive cinamon's voice is a whisper in the quiet room the stranger's memory a muse, relentless and sweet

the stranger's memory a muse, relentless and sweet cinamon writes until their hand cramps, until their voice fades the pages fill with longing, with the ghost of a touch the scent of cinnamon and smoke lingers, a promise and a curse