It's five thirty in the fucking morning and I wonder, have you thought about me?
As much as I've thought about you?
I know you've been busy.
It's five thirty in the fucking morning, and I care too much about how long it's been since we last talked.
It was twenty four hours ago,
Timid as if it would make it all less real.
It's five thirty in the fucking morning, and I'm reading your "I love you" on repeat.
In my head all I hear is "but I want to be single a bit longer" on replay.
It's five thirty in the fucking morning and I want to drive four hours,
Because I want to believe that you being you and me being me can become us being us.
It's five thirty in the fucking morning,
and I just want you to say hi...
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
Butterflies come flying out [poetry]
Thơ CaThe words of a teenage girl with too many emotions and no other form of catharsis.
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