You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.
I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.
And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss, I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.