The buses pass behind us and I look ahead. I can see the colorful sunset, majestic and vibrantly alive in its gold and crimson, the same sunset that you’re watching.

In front of the vast sky stands a building. Tall and modern, it’s built to strike awe into one’s heart, with its combination of metal and glass. It is confidently dark, unashamed of its corridors, which are hidden from view. Only several scattered office windows are lit and seem visible, though the metal and glass light that they bathe in is but another kind of disguise.

All this is towering over more fast lanes than one pair of eyes can contain. The red taillights of cars rush across the heavy tarmac in their race to become nothing more than the afterthought of motion, drawn out in thin, red lines.

As naturally as air moves, my gaze shifts to you. What are you thinking about? Surely you cannot like this urban sight any more than I do, despite the fact that I was raised closer to what one pictures a farmer to be than you were. I’m sure of this, that you are looking at this place and thinking that this is no more than chaos, perfectly designed to create the illusion of order. You know that had this been a true chaos, in which one couldn't see this many kinds of light colliding with each other and with an unnerving pseudo-darkness, then this could have been a lovely place for human beings to be together in, living the beauty.

You’re wondering why we humans have to alter everything.

Maybe you’re thinking of me and the alterations I may cause to your life. Are you wondering, hurting or angry? I can’t tell. Your face shows no emotion and it seems as though you belong to the setting sun, and its myriad of reflections and non-reflection over this highway intersection, more than to anything or anyone else. You look to me as an angel would had one come here to evaluate the work of Man and know that the evaluation matters little to this world’s fate. Yes, you strike me as though you were praying.

Who are you praying to behind your wild curls and open eyes? In such a short time you have become all things to me, living and still. There are secrets that you keep from me in the mysterious beauty that your mind remains. You won’t let me reach them. Your power is compelling. Every conversation I have lately seems to be about you in some way, even witty party chatter. This feels almost unrequited.

I’m still waiting for you to let me into your thoughts, deeper than your body ever could.

In moments like this one waiting for you is especially hard. When I want to reach out and touch you, share it with you and know that you belong to the moment, to the supposedly daily sight far more than you do to me.

“It’s the little things.” Your voice sounds so foreign, but the surprise makes my heart beat faster. “I don’t like any of this, but it’s the little things that I’m praying for. The mad speed with which the cars advance. It won’t do us any good if I pray for it to stop, so I’m hoping it will run its course and bring the people safely home. I don’t like the building, but since it’s there I’m wishing it will keep standing there rather than fall.”

Finally you move your eyes to me and I see you, naked in your pain.

You’re so much like a child in that respect and far wiser in another. You know better than to hope for the greater things. I want to shield your world and make anything possible for you. Instead, I only hug you and say nothing. It’s alright, you know I understand. Our prayers intertwine though they remain unspoken.

You have become all things to me, great and small.