Buckets of Rain...

Sometimes when I lie awake on my hostel bed, I look out of my little window and think whether you think of me the way I think of you.

I wonder if you ever picture me walking down the street below your window, or see me bending over a book in our seven storeyed library.

I wonder if you ever think of the way I look when I run my fingers through my hair.

Sometimes I think if your songs speak of me the way my dances speak of you.

I wonder if you imagine the roads I walk up and down everyday, the way I see you stuck in traffic jams in a city faraway from where I stay.

Sometimes I wonder if you are lying awake on your bed, looking out of your little window and thinking of me.