it scares me to love you,
because everything you love,
always gets old to you,
everything will someday lose its color to you.

like that day when we were outside,
strolling the park side-by-side,
admiring the glories of the cloudy day,
but it began to pour,
and you told me you loved the rain days prior.

you didn't embrace it,
you hurriedly ran the way back home,
dragging me along helplessly.

i arched a brow,
and blew the question out of my lips,
"i thought you loved the rain?"
you let out a raspy chuckle,
shrugging your shoulders as you bent down.

"it got old, the rain's full of bacteria,"
you responded like it was no big ordeal,
heaving as you ran your fingers through your pocket,
in search for your keys.

it hit me then,
falling in love with you,
would just be like loving the rain to you,
it'll get old and it'll be filled with bacteria.

and i thought you loved the rain,
but running from it isn't love,
and i thought i loved you, too,
but this isn't love, is it?