I heard a song like that once.

I like the way your lips taste like cinnamon
And the arrogant smile they make
When you do that stupid hair flip.
See, I’ve found that fall winds are anything but bleak,
And even when they turn to winter,
Nothing makes me quite as weak

As the smell of coffee in the morning
While your cigarette smoke rolls in;
The sound of your laughter 
Or they way you spread yourself so thin.

Raindrops on the pavement, you say,
Are your favorite evening scent,
So I try not to remember that
As we are crawling into bed.

I read your stories from your skin,
Cause God knows your lips would never tell me,
No they’re always talking about something else,
But my body knows you entirely.

And I like the way your hands hold me so gently,
And your lips quickly follow suit;
And how you press them violently against mine
When I’m saying that I need you.