I often wonder what the strangers on the bus think when they look at me, looking at the raindrops race each other down the misty
window panes.
do they see the sadness that satiates me?

there is a girl, whom I recognise, but can't think from where,
She seems to see the sadness there.

we've talked but once, she has purple hair, its long and straight.
She seems to care.

I know not her name, her aches or her pain,
I know not her life, her troubles, her strife,
one thing is sure, though I don't know her nature,
I know that this girl is a Beautiful Stranger.