Cinnamon at Home
I never knew that Budapest smells like cinnamon,
But it does.
It wafts through the gray streets,
And down the hill,
Like the lilt
Of some half-remembered aria.
It’s a shame that I hate cinnamon.
I said “I love you” In Budapest.
He didn’t say it back.
He stole the air right out of the room
So that even the spice was gone,
Nothing but the memory of red
And the breeze of what was once
Hot.
I like cinnamon now.
It makes me smile,
Reminds me of the Danube
And how beautiful he looked
That night.
• • •
Holly Payne-Strange is a novelist, poet and podcast creator. She’s had over a hundred poems published, both in English and Italian, by various groups including Door Is A Jar magazine, Call me [Brackets], and Quail Bell Magazine. Additionally, her podcast writing has been lauded by The New York Times and USA Today. She would like to thank her wife for all her support.