i sat there and waited for you.
then, after the time it took for the ice to form on the window,
i left.
i knew you'd never make it.
maybe there was another appointment, an important peice of business to attend to.
all i got was a crummy mass-mailing of the same carbon copied letter of good tidings.
i want more than that.
i don't have the capital, nor the time to confess such demands.
it's just not my style.
you know my style.
i fiend for you almost as much as i fiend for blank sheets of paper when the mood hits me.
stop.