4am and you’ve ripped up my scripts of dreams
I feel like sitting in the middle of my mass of shreads
Maybe I’ll make a snowangel in this white paper desert
And make something beautiful out of this mess
Most nights I sleep with my arms wrapped around myself
To keep my heart from falling out of the hole in my chest while I sleep
I can’t decide if it’s because youre not here or just your fault
No comments:
Post a Comment