I remember the sunny San Francisco days, under heat and wave and sparkles of summer promise.
The coffee shops sold the style of our precarious notions.
The waves dictated our every move.
And the heat was our solace.
The wind held its breath, afraid that it might break our fragile friendship, afraid that we might blow away.
And in those last summer days,
we were friends;
we were oceans that needed no borders;
we were coffee that had mixed flavours;
we were San Francisco,
in the summertime.