Cinnamon

He thought of her like cinnamon;
     not ground and spicy,
smelling like christmas time necessarily,
but sometimes like that too.
No, she was earthy and whole,
original in her shape and unchangeable,
no matter the contrivances begged.
Wholly elegant, a delightful addition,
while remaining at once and forever
true to every conveyance of her tongue.
Truely cinnamon, curled around the edges -
just enough, he supposed, to catch life
as it passed by.
And added to the illusion too,
by enjoining the zest to the life she lived.
Mostly, because it was not hers alone,
though it could have easily been.
He thought of her like cinnamon
and settled his taste buds for more.