The burn in your nose as the air bites with every breath
Rolling hills ablaze with the fire of a million leaves
My lips, now a chimney
The boyish fascination with producing smoke
Today I am Bogart, dragging deep and suavely letting out
Tomorrow, Smaug the Magnificent, defending my glimmering territory
A second guess with the first step out the door
A cold rush demands another layer
All signs point to autumn
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