By Kate Todman
Cinnamon sugar,
sweet like Christmas morning,
my favourite as it melted soft on my tongue,
until it burned my throat,
bitter and harsh.
The calendar slipped – first a month, then years.
Counting the days was like
holding cinnamon sugar in an open palm by the ocean:
useless as a diamond,
gone before you can change your mind.
I left the cinnamon toast
on the arm of the old recliner.
It went cold and stale in my forgetfulness.
I should have savoured the warmth
of melted butter and sweet, sweet cinnamon.
But when I came back,
the sugar had gone bitter,
and all I could taste was the burn.
Now I’m waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
For the sweet cinnamon again,
the sweetness that will only ever burn.
