White chocolate mocha. 

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Tall. Hot. Warm slice of pumpkin bread in the soft beginning of February. This evening watching the skies turn cranberry red with light hints of ivory stretched wide and thin, I think about you. Allowing rush hour traffic on the east side play as the soundtrack to my memories, I believe somewhere in the midst of reminiscing I swear I felt your lips. Felt my fantasies take on their own lives and watch as what could have been play before me. Traffic lights never work during these hours, so dancing in limbo at this point proves to be more productive and destructive than this bumper to bumper scene. Why in the middle of these days do thoughts of warming your body tease me? Maybe a subtle stare, almost timid like glance, better yet maybe just allowing my eyes to simply rest across all of you for moments at a time, can I indulge selfishly? Just taking in every warm, honey roasted succulent area of your being, can my fantasies be reality just for this moment as I await in this cloud of pollution that surrounds me as an evening sky begins to ascend? Searching deeply for the memory of touch, for the memory of the bare flesh, for the memory of the last time we shared, for some would say it was a mere night of conversation and movements but for me it was everything. I followed your fingertips. Feel in love with your lips. And so willingly gave all and everything I had. It’s 6 O’clock this reminiscent evening. For only 3 minutes in east side rush hour traffic, I relived a whole life I dreamed many dreams of having with you. I relived through kisses and laughter. I relived through words. I relived a life I dreamed many dreams of having with you under cranberry red skies with light hints of ivory stretched wide and thin. It was worth the drive to Starbucks and to be stuck in traffic as the noise of a big city attempts to drown out silent moments where a delicately petite woman runs wild with her fantasies of the lover she’ll never have.

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