Two stories up and the window will catch raindrops wonderfully on its surface. They'll slide horizontally, singing songs of love, pulling me into a desperate state of anticipation. Blissfully alone on the bus. I couldn't tell you how sad the rain makes me on the way home. Crammed between luggage, stifled by hungry eyes over their strange glowing things, I am all alone. I shouldn't tell you because you were sad your whole childhood, and you're probably still sleeping, warm and safe in my scent. And I won't tell you because it terrifies me that my home is next to you. After this summer I won't see your family again. When they sell the house in the spring, only the palisade cliffs swaying in the river can let me back into your room. I'll hear a train pass by and My body will shake. As my whole world rots in this subtle earthquake, your family will sit down for dinner. Do you think they will know? No, and I don't want them to. Like the eyes on the bus, glowing as if lighthouses calling big ships home, you were hungry your whole childhood, and missing you won't change the knotted clot in your brain.