I just don't think I'll ever get over you.

I sit here by the window, looking outside the glass. Raindrops splattering the pane, and then dripping and slipping away to the hedges below keep me rivetted. Sub-consciously I stir the coffee in a mug in my hands. The coffee is something special, comes from Brazil. But it doesn't taste near good enough like the way it did when you made it for me. I gulp it down, its no longer hot. I feel like talking now, but I have less to say without you here. I wish you were here.

This place is getting cold now, especially without you here. The mellifluous sounds of your laughter still echo here, ringing in my ears. Remnants of the past, your face, your touch, your kiss, your love, all keep haunting me even after all these years.

I have stopped drinking now. The drink only makes me sullen. But I don't want you to think I'm unhappy, or that I'm too lonely. I'm pretty happy, I get invited to dinners still. I'm happy. And yet I cannot bide a single moment away withoput thinking of you, and your brown hair cascading over your shoulders when you bend down to kiss me on my forehead. I guess, even if I live to see myself become an old man, unable to eat his own food, or climb the stairs in my home, I just don't think I'll ever get over you.

(Idea courtesy: Colin Hay)