Her Favourite Me

When she shot me down, I apologised for flying in her sky. And I'd soar through her sky forever if she'd look at me like that everytime I fall at her feet.

Not to be dramatic, but the way she looks at me makes me feel like the lead in a beautiful tragedy. And she looks like the goddess the tragedy is dedicated to.

Her tears, stars forbid they are shed, could heal my scars if she'd give my skin the chance. Impossible to believe I can love the rain any more than now.

She remembered that afternoon - the moment that will be the cover of my high school memories - in the pouring wet. And we couldn't stop laughing.

If I think hard enough, I can still hear it. The laughter and the rain. Her voice. But I don't want that. I want to earn her affection as she so effortlessly did mine.

Maybe it is just a crush or a phase. Maybe I am feeding the stereotype but it was hungry. And it hurts no one but me if I pine from a distance -- but there isn't enough.

She was so close to me today. And that day in the rain. And that other day. And all of those other days I see in my mind's eye. But they're nothing more.

They're just days. Moments in days she's likely forgotten. And that's alright. What right have I to want her to remember how I looked at her when I fell at her feet.