There's a mystery in the way he smiles. In the way the sun catches his hair and bleeds red. There's a mystery in the catch of his voice as he calls your name. The way his hand reaches out and almost touches your skin and you burn at the thought of it. You cry when it never seems to connect.

You think of the strangest things- like eyelashes on pale skin and rosy cheeks, glowing from the cold. You think of hands wrapped together in jacket pockets, hiding the way they join from the world.

You dream of a different reality, where you don't look like you do now and you're younger and he's older and somewhere in the middle you meet over tea. Or coffee. And the rain is falling softly, leaving patterns on the ground, tracing figures over glass. And you breathe in the scent of home. You realize it's the scent of him.

You go crazy when everything is quiet and you think too many thoughts and wonder what he's doing. If he's thinking of you, right now. Even though he doesn't know you, you somehow hope he does. You cling to impossibilities and improbable situations.

So you dream and you love and you only break a little bit when you finally wake up and stare at empty pillows and an empty room, once again.