Седьмой лепесток

There are evenings when even the rain seems to gloat - drawing hearts and arrows on the window, but it itself feels nothing. And someone on the other side of the glass is falling apart into molecules of longing, measuring love in degrees of drizzle. Everything around smells of vanilla and cotton candy, but instead of a celebration, there's a lingering aftertaste of emptiness. There are still photos, random routes, different cities, and a general "almost." It's funny how you can be so close and still not find yourself in any of the fun pictures. And it seems that missing someone is already a diagnosis, but someone has to get sick for two.