I sit, crouching on Saturday night's back. Holding on tight. Holding on to the coffee cup, and all that could have been in it. Then the rain comes and goes, an old friend. And deserted, I sit under the deserted flickery yellow street lamp. Three raindrops in the coffee cup. One on my nose.
Me, waiting for my old friend. Me, afraid of silence. Me, straining to hear the night's conversations with the street lamp; the sea's conversations with you. And you, can't you feel your fingertips, too?
But its worth the wait.
And how could I forget, that burning cigarette among the other eighty seven things waiting for me, across the sea.
....Lets paint yellow outlines to all the shadows in the world.