the most frustrating thing when it comes to a writer is when everything every word, every letter, isn't enough to give justice to the captivating picture of you in the afternoon:
soaked in sweat, grinning foolishly, striking up a conversation about coffee, and how unhealthy it is for me to drink three cups straight, to stay awake,
yet the bittersweet taste stains my lips.
it spills down my throat, covers my lungs, and drowns them with the addicting aroma of coffee beans and lazy dreams, until i cannot seem to breathe,
and the only thing i can ever do is to spill ink for you.