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Pumpkin Spice Latte’s.

I want to paint,

the sound of a crackling fire booming on bonfire night as an exploding firework shoots up into the night sky,

the taste of an oozing, gooey roasted marshmallow sitting on a wooden stick, waiting to be turned into a chocolate s’more,

the smell of a Pumpkin Spice Latte steaming from Starbucks on an icy December morning,

the impossibility of a Miniature Australian Sheppard ignoring a taunting, bushy Red Squirrel,

the distance between my fingers and a salted caramel brownie from Costa Coffee as my mouth watered and my taste buds tickled,

the memory of myself running across the beach on a summer’s day in America, West Palm Beach,

a miracle of an orchid that hides deeply within the juicy delights of an apple, still waiting to be found,

a mine shaft as dark as midnight pondering whether anybody would be brave enough to discover its treasures,

a blood red cranberry freshly picked from a bush of delights,

I want to paint, the memories of the beginning of this poem.

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