You sit, staring out the window, wondering where she is, when she'll be back. Cup number three turned from Irish to black by the side of a bottle that is almost as empty as your soul when she's not close.
Colors of the rainbow paint the sky but drain your face, flooding your facets with grey, exactly the same shade of her sweater the last time she left you. And yet again she's not here. Not yet.
Wondering where she went this time you make your way to the bottom of the bottle, drowning the last hope of again finding her scratching on your back door.
You sit there, looking at the clock, the clock staring right back at you. As it shakes its head you take down the last coffee. 3 sugars: life is already bitter enough.
And as all hope has abandoned every fiber, you now stand, still staing out the window, suddenly smiling because you no longer have to wonder where she is, or when she'll be back.
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