Roasted cinnamon, potentially expired

There are so many ways to say love

And as many ways to hear it

​The taste of love s​immered on the stove

​as Sunday ​afternoon goes dusk

changes as the spices age unnoticed

These things never really expire

This love shoveled out from 

​Under car tires after the storm

I see it in the muscles of your back

aching in the evening 

under the care of my chapped fingers
tracing my name across your shoulders