Excerpts from The Book I'll Never Write

Grasping at straws

The cool summer air embraced my  skin.
I saw the clouds begin to diminish with the last few drops of that day's sun.
I envisioned you. Sat here. Smiling back at me with that ear-to-ear grin.
Your hands painting with the frayed ends of my hair.
Lips pressed against mine as we became one.
Our hands interwoven like the thick nit sweaters you wore.
The all too familiar scent of home and safety lingering on the neck.
Here we were in love.
Yet here I sat.
Now.
In a crowded room.
Surrounded by harsh lighting and boorish lectures.
Grasping at straws.