The rain does not seem to wash away my thoughts
Like it usually does
It only dampens them
Soaks them through
Saturates their contents until the words no longer make sense.
One by one
Slugging on their backpacks
And pulling their hoods over their heads
I look up from my book every time a new set of wheels sizzles on the wet pavement
But it is never for me.
The drops of water drip from my hair to the book in my lap
Tap, tap, tap
But the printed ink does not run.
The atmosphere is dense, and heavy
And the dark clouds wrap the world in a cocoon.
All sounds are muffled,
As if I am sinking below the surface of a lake;
But my limbs cannot move through the sluggish water.
Soon the last person leaves of his own accord
The wheels of his bicycle singing along with the black asphalt
Until even his small green basket attached to the rear of his bike,
disappears into the thick fog.
For hours it seems
But no one appears
Looking for me.