The fault line where a shoulder of rock breaks away
crack runs all the way to the insides of relationship,
hold the torch as the gnomes heave out of dark pits
bearing smell of burnt cinnamon, singed bay leaf:
reminders of soup cooked on windy evenings,
mint carrying the taste of your kiss and salt from the sea.
A detour of pretences when love has died, memories
like frayed threads on fabric, fingers run over them
again and again till the colour fade, details blur.
The lake of grief is clear, the minerals at the bed
fossilized pain layered, pressed by slab of water
whose every drop, each one of them retains you.
Written to prompt from *Not Without Poetry* – my poem has last line of my favorite song (listen to this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7X56vCYOThM&feature=related), the main spice or ingredient in my favorite dish (cinnamon and bay leaf) and a geologic form (fault line, shoulder of a rock, fossil).