This morning coffee tastes like memories. As I pull out my notebook of ideas I can’t help thinking about her. It was three years this week. She is the one that gave me this notebook, just because, for no special reason, like she gave me so many things.
If she could open it and read things I write, she would look at me puzzled, she wouldn’t understand, she would ask what am I looking for, and even when I’ll try to explain she would still not get it – but love me anyway.