"Well. Here we are."
The rain is pouring and the bus isn't coming. Lucky for me there's a shotty roof covering the bench. I sit and think over the humidity and how my hair will poof up. You're sitting next to me.
I really want that bus to come.
Or time to slow and the rain to fall forever. Because it's just you and me here, for now. And I like just you and me.
I can't look at you, though it's all I'm dying to do. I just want to watch you forever, to soak you all in. I haven't felt this way since...
But I won't think about that. I shouldn't. Because remembering those days will make this all seem alright. This sitting just out of the rain with you, this falling into love with you.
And it's not alright. It's not okay.
I know what you are outside of this covered bus stop. I know how you are. But I still can't help but inch closer to you, still can't help but want to rest my head on your shoulder. And I think you can see it.
Even when it was "gone" you could see it. You'd speak to me and taunt me with it. And I thought you a fool. Well, look at me. I'm the fool. I still love you. If it's possible to do so. Can I even say "still"? Did I ever "love" you to begin with?
I scuff my kicks on the cement, thinking of how it would look if the pavement here were wet. Cars drive past and you say something.
I don't even know what it is, but I know I wont respond right. I never do. You always catch me off guard. That, or around you I'm so far on guard that I can't find my voice, my thoughts, or even my breath.
And I just want you to see what I see.
What I see in myself that you miss because I clam up around you; what I see in you when you're across the room, forgetting I exist. I want you to see that and love it the way I do. I want you to love me the way I do.
And you do. You do love me. When it's just us, on this rain-free, covered bus stop bench. But this, sadly, is the only place you'll ever love me. Right here, right now, and tomorrow night when I bring myself back here as I drift to sleep, my heart breaking because it's not going to come again.
You know it, and I know it. When the bus comes you're gone. When the rain stops, you're gone. And both things are completely inevitable.
And in the end I'll sit here, my hair full of volume from the humidity and my heart laying crinkled in my lap. I don't blame you. I really don't. I don't believe you're being cruel.
God made you what you are. But I'm not blaming Him either.
I'm complimenting Him, commending Him.
And blaming myself for wishing on rainbows.
Rainbows that leave, like you, with the rain.