Someone I know dances her way to the kitchen.

Mostly in coarse socks,

Because hey no one’s watching her.

The way she looks at the bundle of cinnamon sticks

kept on top of the granite kitchen slab.

She has messy hair in the mornings

But it doesn’t bother her face while looking at it.

Alone like a vintage clock on a beige wall

Strong like a great fall.

She lit the flames to absorb some warmth

Spilled some and radiated some.

The water becomes turbulent,

volatile, and impulsive; speaks as hot bubbles.

Waiting for the cinnamon to drown in it

And exuberate its celestial aura in her senses.

She is in the retreat of self-love,

Sometimes it begins with cinnamon sticks.

No, she is not Lana Del Rey,

She is ME!