it always seemed somewhere far off, but was closer than i expected.
you never knew.
i guess its something in the way that coffee tasted: fresh. sweet. like a nervous comfort dripping down my lips, welcoming a half drunken 'goodnight'. i guess it all started there, the third night in july, or was it the summerfest before, the blood red moon hanging low in a harvest sky; an omen of a beginning, and the beginning of a two year hartache.
but we all bloom in a different season.
now the familiarity of that intermittent friendship seeps through a telephone 170 miles from last year (or january), and four months from where these irish tea leaves took to steeping in german water. it dripped off the reciever and stained, with a notice that you're coming home thursday and hope to see me there. you said summer would be just like old times.
but here's the catch...
i've given up drinking coffee and taken to tea.
so come back next spring when i'm alone again, and still in touch with you. we can have revelations then.

you have impecable timing my friend.