It was September.
I remember this day clearer than almost anything, clearer than the present.
September, a fall month, feels like home. It has the cinnamon and pumpkin spice aroma, and you can smell the apple pie baking on the oven.
Everything was basking in an orange tinge, and everything felt a little sweeter.
The exact moment itself is blurred. Like I was watching through a broken mirror.
When you walked through that market, the hipster one I had pleaded to get out of. I had thought it was full of prestigious young adults, with their raw milk and organic crap.
I saw you, laughing there with your best friend. I remember how she hated me for a good two years, but grew close after.
I froze in my spot, which was a terrible idea.
Three people behind me ran directly into me, and threw me to the ground. My friend, who was laughing, didn't see I was still staring at you.
You ran over to me, helping me up and checking to see if I was okay, which I was after hearing you.
I could smell cinnamon sugar on you, and it was so sweet.
Your voice was prettier than a song, and I admired what a musician you were.
I was stunned, my friend still laughing and your friend critical. I cracked a smile and you did the same, and after a few jokes I got your number.
Our first date was beautiful, the color of smoke on my dress and the sky on yours.
A bookstore and a coffee shop holds that memory. I picked out a book for you, and you for me. I got you a cinnamon mocha, which was ironically a favourite.
The book is on my shelf, next to my bed.
We laughed at jokes exchanged and stories told, and made new stories to tell.
My friend texts me, asking if I want to go to the coffee shop. I decline.
The other dates were just as amazing as our first. Full of sugary sweet flirting and giggles.
We never had a dull moment.
Our first night together was magical. We didn't do anything, yet I had never felt so close to you.
Cuddling on my couch, my roommate and friend at her boyfriend's for the night, you fell asleep on my shoulder.
I couldn't stand to see your sleep disturbed, so I carried you to my bed and slept on the couch.
In the morning, the next day, I made you french toast. You loved the cinnamon.
You felt bad for taking up the bed, and when I suggested we share the bed you blushed the cutest shade of red.
It wasn't long until we were happily in love.
You moved in, and we shared my room. Cinnamon sugar was always a scent in the air.
We shared our bed, our room, and our lives.
Now in my room, there is an empty bed. My roomie wants to fill it, but I refuse.
The sunsets were golden, and so was our love. Sunrises were red and intense.
Those markets I detested became a weekly trip. Raw milk wasn't so bad when we had shared it. The scent of cinnamon sugar still followed you.
The night of our first fight was awful.
I wanted to stay in and relax, when you wanted to go out and hang with our friends. Your friends! I argued. Your friend still disliked me.
The cinnamon sugar was too sweet, a sickly sweet.
You said I was selfish, I said you're pushy.
I slept on the couch that night.
The next morning was better. We both apologized and the couch was occupied.
It was better after that, the newly refreshed love, like newlyweds.
I made your best friend laugh.
It was that damn market. A few steps in the wrong direction, and the sugary sweet scent of something darker than cinnamon, redder as well.
Your old best friend, is now mine. We grieve together and are there for one another. You would be proud.
Sadly I cannot stand that market, and whenever I pass by I get a whiff of cinnamon sugar.
