"I still remember, 3rd of December.
Me in your sweater,
You said it looked better on me than it did you,
Only if you knew, how much I liked you.
Watched as she stands with her holding your hands,
You put your arms around her shoulders,
While I'm getting colder.
But how could I hate her?
She's such an angel.
But then again kinda wished she were dead.
And again, how I wished you knew, just how much I liked you.
But I watched your eyes whenever she walks by,
Oh, what a sight for sore eyes.
She glow brighter than the blue skies,
She's got you mesmerised, while I die.
Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half as pretty.
You gave her your sweater, it's just polyester.
But you liked her better,
Wish I were Heather."
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
She Was a Poem, But Sadly, He Couldn't Read
Поэзияa book made for the broken souls. a book made for the ones that are healing. a book made for the ones finding and longing for comfort. a book made just for you.
