Your are the marshmellow to my s'mores. as I cook the marshmallow I make sure it is perfect, just like you. The hot marshmallow reminds me of the time you burned your tongue. The graham crackers are the first ones of the pack, sitting there, ready, just like you. I slap the marshmallow between the two crackers and right up against the chocolate. The sticky sandwich moves closer and closer to your mouth, steming in the cold night. You make sure it looks perfect before you take the first bite. You sink your teeth into the layers. First into the graham, then the chocolate, the marshmallow, and back through the graham cracker. Your face enlightens, you turn to me, and as you're chewing, I hear you make out the sound "Mmmm...". Marshmallow and chocolate smudges cling to your cheeks like frost frozen onto plants on a cold, autumn morning. You finish your s'more and then try to make one for me. You know it won't work because no matter how hard you try, you won't be able to make them just like me.