Unusual, it is, to have come this time of year. Yet, it’s a breath of fresh air. Or much like the touch from the one you love.
I miss the rain and the feelings that accompany its drops. The smell, sitting on the front porch taking it all in, and remembering about a time I never lived in.
A small Paris Cafe that shields me from the rain and comforts me with the warm welcome smell of fresh coffee. The wafting of pipe tobacco, hand-rolled cigarettes, and people chatting away in a language I struggle to understand sitting at a table to write, much like Hemingway once did.
I long for that. But now it will never be my story. I must forge my path and write my own story. One that is here, in my own time.
Nate Melugin 