A rainy afternoon plasters wet leaves on windshields,
makes puddles in flat parking lots,
turns store windows into watercolors.
It is their nature

Half empty bus stations, echo with memories
hours talking about nothing,
nights trying to stay awake, watching highway signs,
a few moments holding someone who was staying,
when you left.

Violins sing low and sad.
They can't help it,
their strings were made to be slow and mournful
Music's best imitation of lonely.

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