Sentimental Journeys

Little cloves stay in their shells
Hidden behind the thin layer of skin
Covering that keeps them protected and separate,
They stem from the same root, but they are fragmented
They are close, yet distant
They are alike, but different.
Like familiar strangers.
A clove waits to be used for the benefit of others
Giving flavour and joy wherever it goes
Happily being crushed before tasting.
Being spread, into tiny pieces
Losing itself without a trace.