The smell of cinnamon
And a shard of homemade toffee,
Rolling on my tongue.
The glorious colours outside,
The leaves that swirl in the wind.
At the same time,
Everything is darker-
Not as saturated
As the vivid summer.
I see you
Across the street,
The paper round still going.
Striped scarf around your neck
The window clouds
Up as a breathe.
The condensation blurs the outside.
Maybe things are better behind blurred windows,
Then no one can get close enough
To see us for who we really are.
