Times Like These

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At 10:34

I realize I've been staring at her hands again.

There's just something about the way she holds her brown paper coffee cup

that feels like home.

Like hot white sand beaches and mango trees on Sunday morning.

And it's the most ridiculous thing ever

that I'm jealous of that coffee cup.

Because she holds it carefully, but tightly, but gently, but forcefully but..

I always forget it's just a cup.



So I always take it from her.

And write on it.

But as much as I want to write her a meaningful message on the side

Something that sets the spark off in her eyes.

I'm usually just so hypnotized by the thought of being that close to somewhere her lips have been.

Lips that have spoken truth and whispered comfort.

I end up scrawling my signature tag



The one with the wobbly face she thinks is funny.

And oh God. Her laugh.

How her smile triggers my own in tandem.

I feel like I'm running in circles around her, surround her.

In the rain.

And I'm fine with that.

Because it's the happiest I've been in forever.


I want her to feel the smile start in her stomach.

And spread like gold light

Until it touches her cheeks.



Content wrapped up in the redbluepurpleyellow promises of friendship.

Molding with her soul.

Finding comfort in her instability.

Finally filling the void with something more meaningful than lust or fake love or prescription pill popping.



This is what I want.

Just to watch her.

And realize at 10:34

That I'm still staring at her hands.

And the shadow of smile on my lips

Is all I need.

If only for that moment.





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