Ode to Cinnamon Bun


You touch my lips, and all I can think is that if I die, I hope I die with the taste of you on my tongue. I hope I pass from this life to the next with your sweet, soft flavor sweeping over me like the first signs of spring after a long, cold winter.

Your twists and turns entrance me like high-waisted jean shorts on a uniquely beautiful girl. Satisfying, sweet, soothing and sensual, all at once and one at a time. More potent than the strongest drugs, your smell makes my worries slowly, pleasantly melt like a child’s first ice cream cone eaten in the summer sun. I want all of you, but I don’t  want you to end. I wish you’d stay with me, in my fleeting thoughts and my most vivid dreams.

I know this can’t be. You’ll be gone eventually. But that’s ok. Because in you I find what few things in life can offer: sure happiness. There will never be a time when I see you, when I feel your soft surface against my fingertips, that I’m not flooded with a happiness like the last day of school. You’re the start of a warm season, the birth of better days, the beginning of brighter moods, the commencement of utter, carefree freedom.

My only hope is that I don’t forget that your nectar-sweet taste, your honey-saccharine smell, your cloud-velvet touch. I’ll be lucky if I can shut my eyes and feel you there like you were once before, warming my heart and soul, turning upward the corners of my mouth. Regardless, no matter my imagination, I will be truly sad when you leave.

There’s hope for us yet, though. I know a way that you can stay. It’s not permanent, no. Eventually, you’ll go away. You’ll not-so-sadly and even less regrettably need to disappear.

But I can always save some for later.

End Kwote

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