melt

And excitements melt spotlessly into the used-brownish sugar in the bottom of a coffee cup. I side them coyly with a spoon, but I know I will not sip it into my mouth. That’s how it goes with my so called ‘network’ numbers on my phone. Droning. You know, the sound of the keypad is droning, monotonous. Goes along through four hundred something numbers. If I could slosh them off, then how many numbers left, that’s the question. Tonight, none. When I’m longing for a cup of coffee and a conversation, I must be satisfied enough with mister Cole’s stardust, entomb my utopic mood. Let it away just like a smitting smoke from an ended cigarette. Melt. What a murky present I get tonight. Don’t remind me that I am not good at making and maintaining a network. I don’t care about my friends’ birth date, that’s the first. And I just can’t get myself connected. But, how could you forget a conversation, doesn’t it marked redder than any anniversary? Most people don’t, I figured. So, my friend is just a flourescent-lit monitor for tonight. And maybe for ever. And I’m not complaining, to anyone