2.30 P.M.

You'd speak in soft sounds like a gunshot underwater and I'd throw my head back laughing until my ribs would hurt. I'd feel safe for a moment. But then, people would fill up this space and I can't see you anymore. For some reason, I always see this droplets images on my glasses everytime this storm happens and it blurs out everything that used to be beautiful. You're fading away gradually. You're walking through the door. 

The equilibrium of your footsteps are gone. I'm losing everything I'm holding on to. Don't tell me I'm impossible. You're impossible. You're so out of my reach even when you're next to me. I've been searching for your eyes that the sunlight seemes dull to me ever since. I've seen so much of you around but never enough to make you mine. You're cold and I burn. I never want to see you walking away but as I drive, I had to constantly remind myself that you're the one leaving and not me. I repeat my mantra all over. The person in the rearview mirror is closer than they appear. And yet, you're still unreachable.