Cinnamon, Coffee, and Passion Fruit

Wispy white fumes rise up from the black porcelain cup, hoping that the sea breeze would be kind to enough for once to let them climb. But it withers away the fumes spreading the aroma of coffee and cinnamon, mixed with the salty smell of the sea, and the memories of a skin that smells faintly of passion fruit. Its that time of the day when clouds turn crimson, birds go back to their trees, and memories wake up from where they had been put to sleep. I stir the coffee for a bit with the cinnamon stick before taking it out, wondering if its the amber sky, the cinnamon stick, the sound of the waves, or the strumming of that distant guitar that just woke up the memories. The strumming grows louder waking up more memories. I sip on the coffee which continues to let out cinnamon fumes. I see the guitarist walk past - a gypsy of sorts with long dreadlocks and sun-scorched skin, and a guitar that seems to have stood the test of time and still managed to sound beautiful. Son of a bitch! May be there are things in this world that get better with time. The used cinnamon stick lay wearily on the black saucer, still damp, still smelling good perhaps. The memories loosen their grip on me as the strumming fades into the waves, leaving me and the cinnamon stick alone...and gloomy. And I say this to the cinnamon stick: "Trust me, I know what it feels like, but your job here is done"