Semicolon

The busy crowds are lost fish in an ocean

Where I belong's miles across the oceans

In your hands, which I now only imagine

I avoid having anything to do with them

Irritation, bottled up from these commotions

But your voice in my head leaves it unopened

I liked the rain

An excuse I used to call you while I begged my mom to stay in

The gap of wind

Stole, with time, like you, its scent of amber, peppermint