Melange

I don't sleep.

I think of you and our conversations, and then I think some more.  It's always been about the mind for me anyway, and oh my, you have that.  The body's impressive too, but it's the mind that intrigues me.  It's all about writing and debates; the rest falls away like leaves kissed by an October breeze.

You remark on my E-Mail patterns and more than occasional snarkiness.  Yes, both actions are steps in a subconscious dance:  my response to this vexed state.  I loathe not having a solid read on people and situations. 

The dance annoys you; it's a two-step that's tiring and tedious.  I'll change, or at least be more conscious of it, because I don't want you to change partners before we've danced one dance all the way through. 

I listen to the crickets chirp outside my windows and decide to brew more coffee.

Who needs sleep anyway?

The flowers in the pink vase sit to my left; I glance at them from time to time.  It's not the flowers' fault that they've lasted longer than mutual interest.  I've never been one to throw out flowers even if I've changed my opinion of the person who gave them to me.  I'm not silly.

Out of spite, the flowers will probably last a month, though.