I don't remember when exactly it started raining inside me. I have it confused with all the times I've been left at the front doors of people who never meant to let me in. Is it because I read too deep into your thoughts? Or is it because I was running late that one night picking you the right flower? I still don't know why I am the way I am, but it's been raining for awhile now. I'm just waiting for the high tide. I hope you won't miss me much. Oh, and I read your favourite book the other day, and now I know what you cry about at night. I hope you don't mind, love.