London. April 2012.

A mirror. Me. And the drive back to London.

The forecast's the same.
Everyday.
Chilly, rainy and windy.
They say it's the wettest April in a lifetime.
The watch must be running late,
For it feels like night already.

And I have to miles to travel.
To be back in her arms once more.

But today's different.
I feel the chill, but it hurts me no more.
The wind taunts me,
But thwarts me no more.
An overpowering magnetism pulls me
And the icy rain,
Strangely,
Adds to the thrill.

My senses have been numbed
By an alien,
Almost sadistic sense
Of braving the gloom
To find her at the station,
Trying to keep the ruffian winds off her face.
In an overcoat,
Common black.
Yet so unique.