It's been going on for such long time now, that I no longer remember whether I was running to you, or away from you, or just running so I won't have to think. Or remember. Or feel that weird hollow ache.
I don't know how far ahead you are, or whether I was so caught up with running that I missed you. I'm tired and I'm going to stop now.
Won't you meet me half way?
On a happier note, guess what I woke up to this morning?
Thunder! And a sky full of grimly grey clouds!
So I run through the house, pushing open all the windows to let the magic in.
O rain-scented breeze! O billowy curtains! O flighty flyers of maths tuitions, kathak classes and sales at the silk museum!
This is weather that demands that you sit by open windows and sip hot, sweet, ginger tea from warm china mugs.
And pick up newspapers just to drop them, and smile at the raindrops outside.
And roll up your jeans in futile attempts to avoid muddying.
And feel the cool breeze caress your face and run it's fingers through your hair, as you stand at the entrance of the ladies coach and sing to yourself.
And exchange sheepish smiles with strangers standing across you, because they're doing the same.
This is magic weather. Step out and see.