On a misty sunday afternoon,
I wander around the busy streets of my old hometown,
Searching for some sort of familiarity in all the unfamiliar eyes that meet mine,
But to no avail, I look up instead, at the sky,
The only thing that seems to not have changed over the time.

And as I look up I notice how the sun stands out in the crowd of clouds,
Yet in all its glory, it somehow manages to blend in just fine,
Unlike myself, I don't fit into these buzzing streets,
That are now filled with traffic and blaring horns,
And eager faces ready to return home.

Yet these crowded streets seem unusually deserted to me,
For the people I used to call home, are nowhere to be seen.
The carefree ghosts of their past selves now float in the air,
And if I look close enough, I might as well find mine, floating with them.

Shaking my head, I look down at my steps, one... two... three,
Just on cue, a drop of rain falls on my cheeks, tracing my lips,
As if telling me to smile at the good memories and cherish them,
Every raindrop that follows reminds me of the beautiful times these streets held.

Soon the drizzle turns into a downpour,
Yet I stand still, taking it all in, being in the moment for once,
My wet sleeves cling to my arms like I had been clinging to the bitterness of change,
Again I look up and register the dark sky with no sun in sight, still enduring-ly beautiful.
© pandawithglasses