An unusual amount of weather collects underneath the lids of mine eyes.

Underneath the hood of thin skin, it hides,

Waiting to be foretold.

On the days where he says hello to me,

Mine eyes are filled with nothing but clear skies and sunshine.

Padding the pavement with my feet,

I hear the radio blasting the unkept thumps and poundings of that new song

That everyone loves, but everyone hates.

Shooting for the moon, or the sun, either one is fine with me.

On the days that I think he does not see me

Rain falls slowly.

Pitter pattering against the hollow skins of my cheeks,

Transparent orbs passing through me as if I were not even there.

I wonder if he even knows I am there.

Thin streams of rain turn to violent, rushing rivers, cutting through the Lonely mountain core.

On the days that I stand here waiting, waiting, waiting, for what I cannot remember, I’ve been standing here waiting, waiting, for so long clouds swirling around in my mind holding wispy dreams of him and me.

Lavender lighted clouds mixing and mingling with plush, pink puffs of air suffocating my thoughts.

Sun beating down so hard the air begins to choke,

Drying away the sweetness of your lips,

Leaving me parched for more of this.

Whatever is this.

Whatever this is.

Snowing, storming, heating, hailing, hurting,

Smiling.