I’ve got a thing for white shirts and black ties. Damn you for looking so good.
The backs of their heads. Their crisp white shirts and black ties. They all look like you.
I can’t help but dream after all these sleepless nights: Will there be an us?
Narcissist. Empath. You. Me. Was it ever love? Or just survival?
One day I woke up and realized all we had were those drunken nights.
I read the books. I cut my hair. I booked a trip to anywhere. But as I wander, I wonder what you’re doing who you’re with. And I hate myself for it, because wherever I go I am there and wherever it is you still don’t care.
Our hands intertwined, I couldn’t tell you which were his and which were mine.
Laid up in this bed for three days straight, you know I didn’t ask for this.
Some days the only thought that keeps me breathing is: “Tomorrow is new.”