sweet dreams are made of this

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Ireland. A small bar, reminiscent of a piece of a home buried deep within your heart. We could sit in a small booth, the jade leather seat cool under my legs. You'd drum your fingers along to a hushed tune in your head against the honey-colored wooden table. I’d watch as the dim light hangs over us, casting a soft light unto your face, creating the most imperceptible flakes of gold in your blue eyes. The bar would be quiet, other than the muted murmurs of locals. The smell of coffee and sweet smoke would drift over, creating a hazy trance. It would be ten in the night, we would have just watched the sunset over Irish cliffs, too late for wine, too early for whiskey. Eventually, the music in the town would grow louder, marking the start of the night's festivities, and you would take my hand, softly, but sure of the adventure that follows and we would dance under Irish stars.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Amsterdam. Midnight. We’d be walking adjacent to the canals, the reflection of the moon turning the water into a mirrorball. It would be quiet, yet filled with sounds of a sleeping city. The streetlights would light the cobblestone streets, leading us to the small coffee stand which is only light by small, slogan string lights hanging from the menu. I’d watch the steam from my coffee rise as it mixed with the smell that the whispering breeze carries. You’d turn to me and raise your cup as you take the first sip. There’d be a quiet moment, as I just watched you and listened. Far off, we’d hear music, but it wouldn’t be like a beat in my heart, rather smooth, like the very blood flowing through my veins. We’d sit on a bench, overlooking the iridescent canal and I’d rest my head on your shoulder, because that would be enough, you, me, Amsterdam, and coffee.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Barcelona. A small restaurant in a narrow, cobblestone alley at two in the morning. Soft light coming from the lamps above would blanket the street. The smell would hit me first, the rich coffee beans and the sweet smell of pastries and jam. I can hear the music play, a quiet, stripped version of a tango. You’d play with my fingers as if they were strings on a midnight guitar. The coffee would be hot in our hands as we exit into the cool night. As we walk up the alleyway, the cobblestone walls start to look less lonely. In a small corner, a few hundred feet away from a street in a small, handcrafted iron table. We set our drinks down and I shiver as my fingers trace the floral designs on the table, yet I’m warm under your leather jacket. For the first time, I feel the music in my veins, and I begin to dance, alone at first. You sit at the table, watching me as if there was nothing else in this city to look at, shaking your head. But without hesitation, you get up and take my hand, saying that it’s such a shame to let me dance alone and that I am promised all your early morning dances.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in New York, on top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza at one in the morning. If we were having coffee, it’d be in South Africa as we watch the waves softly caress the sand. If we were having coffee, it’d be in Seattle, on Mount Rainer. If we were having coffee, it’d be in the favelas of Rio, as we watch the sunrise. If we were having coffee, it’d be in Paris, or Rome, or London, or Tokyo. If we were having coffee, it’d be in an airport at 4 a.m. and you’d complain about the bad airport coffee while we watch planes take off, mistaking them for stars and I'd fall in love with you all over again.

I suppose the bottom line is, I don’t care where we have coffee, I just hope we do.