Frisson

She'd fantasised about it, mornings woke her roughly, in half sleep she'd see the leaf, 'twas difficult to tell the brand, though she had always liked the earthen colours of the maple leaf. His molten lava geyser like and hot would hide the luscious hues and, through eternal flow, bestow multiple layers of opaque bernaise, until the weight could overcome and plunge the centre to its doom, into a slippery grave of wild and wet as in the end of ends he'd pulverise in battle heat and sounds of near frisson all traces of its bold and floral origin.