he spends his days chasing seagulls and singing to the songs in his headphones. he dances when he should be working and works when he should be laughing, but his eyes are the same shade as his hair in the morning and he knows who he is. he knows that rain is cliched but he doesn't want it for love or dancing or sorrow, he wants it for the way it flattens the clothes to his skin and the way it makes the leaves vibrant against withered clouds. he thinks in poetry and dreams in black and white, but he speaks of hope even though he knows how messed up the world is. he is still waiting for his second chance; he is still waiting for a reason; he is still waiting for someone to prove him wrong.
she wears long skirts and ribbons in her hair, and smiles because she knows it makes them happy. but she feels more deeply than anyone knows and sometimes she can't understand why the world insists on turning. she soaks up rainwater through porous skin, but she loves the sun because it can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. no, no: sometimes she hates the sun. she hates it because it is too much like herself, stuck in the same spot seeing the same things, stuck too far away to touch. alone, she touches the coarse spines of books, but they do not touch her back, they do not whisper small words in her ears. she is still waiting for the hand that grabs hers; she is still waiting to see more than specks of life in the darkness; she is still waiting for someone to prove her right.