Compulsion: Writing.

a steaming cup of coffee in your hands. but your hands would've been warm enough, i would imagine. had imagined.

i see your lips moving but the words seem to be dissipating along with the vapour. so i stop looking, stop reading your lips, stop trying to make sense of it all. 

"i make mistakes." a voice inside me leapt out. i don't sound like myself. maybe i'm not anymore.

then you look at me like you don't know me. like i am a passerby who sat down and ranted to the wrong guy.

"it's gonna be okay." you said. your eyes as lost as mine.

and all this, because i feel like writing something sad. Was it sad? If I can't write sad, I might as well not write as all. Which reminds me, that I lost part three. As always, I didn't finish what I started.