Strange it is

Isn't it strange that when I asked her about her favorite things, she said that autumn is the only thing that makes her happy? And now I'm becoming that. Isn't it strange? That I felt it all – the leaves of happiness turning black, falling from me, the rain every other day on my face, the fog in the mountains and in my brain? Isn't it strange? The storm is coming this way, and I don’t know if I’m able to get away. The wind is playing a louder song for me, just to manipulate me to stay here. Snow is coming to cool me off, but it doesn’t know I'm too cold for everything. Isn't it strange, we’ve become strange and thing we didn't want? In the end, it’s better to say, Aren't we strange?