CINNAMON LEAVES

 

Let us wither away, 

​in the residual warmth 

of an early autumn noon, 

like cinnamon leaves, 

lounging under the whistles 

of the pine canopy 

in this cold zephyr 

that would carry 

our evaporated souls with 

all our memories imbibed, 

like a whiff of a delicate aroma 

and slyly blend them 

into the subtilty of this air, 

forsaking, like veins and reticulations,

the tattoos and suicide scars.