As a habit I run fast, whenever I run,
whether its to the end of the block or into a dorm.
If I stay still now, I could your cinnabun,
And the flavor of cinnamon entices me,
its taste as old and warm
as the feeling of your sleeping breath
when I lie next to your nutmeg body.
Love could be another stop sign I jog past
but looking at you, my lungs have nothing left.
Delilah Miller
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-stop-sign/
