We were all strangers once, I say to the world I see from my rooftop. It is summer and the world is still the same.
It is raining and I am wet. It is raining and my city is being washed off its dusty routine. Cars block roads, yet the clouds above are merciless. They darken- their grief is more than mine, I suppose.
"Will you be coming inside?" a voice brings me back to what I know is called reality.
"In a while," I reply, looking ahead at the patch of sky which is till now free of clouds. Which is till now bright- like a spot missed while cleaning up golden locks from the barber's shop.
The city roars as the water pulses through its streets. Monsoon has drenched us as it always does.
I look above and see an airplane fly low.
I feel as if I can touch it, if I stand on my tiptoes. But sometimes standing on tiptoes is not enough, I remind myself.
Just like sometimes smiling at a stranger is not enough.
The sky agrees as lightning streaks the sky; a messy scrawl drawn by my childish hand.