It's not even rush hour, but I take my alternate route anyway. You'd probably laugh at me if you knew that three years later, I still haven't given up the habits that started with you. That I still go out of my way to drive past your house, because it was once an excuse to try to run into you. Because maybe, just maybe, I'd see your crappy old car in the driveway. And then maybe, just maybe, you'd be just walking in, or getting your mail, or coming back from a run. And then, of course, I'd have to stop in and talk with you. You'd joke about how I had caught you just at the right time, not knowing that I had actually planned it that way. You'd offer me coffee, and then sit there drinking yours--black, as always. I always made fun of you for how gross it tasted, but I secretly thought that it made you that much more manly and attractive. You'd turn on the TV, but we'd always do more talking than watching. We'd debate politics, we'd debate sports. I'd try to keep up, but you were always smarter than I. I mean, you still are. Then there would come a point when you would say that you really do need to get work done, and that you'd see me next time. Filled with hope, I would smile and ask "When is next time?" But you'd let me down, shrugging and saying "I don't know." And I would drive home, both pleased and frustrated. Because as much as I cherished those times with you, I knew that they would never mean to you what they meant to me. Because our friendship was beautiful, but my thirst for more was ruining my perception of it. Because I don't just want your coffee, your conversation, or even just your time. I want you. And that want will never be satisfied. And as I think this, I realize that I'm once again sitting outside your house. But your crappy car isn't in the driveway, and you won't be walking outside for anything. Because you're gone, but the memories aren't. And three years later, I can't stop thinking about you.
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