he doesn't owe me
anything.
but if only the shooting stars
and eleven-elevens
were truer than my exhausted
mind.
YOU ARE READING
blinded
Poetryshe was blinded by his perfection. he was too blind to realise. ☁ [copyright simile-, two thousand and fourteen] #140 in Poetry | #904 in Romance
16
he doesn't owe me
anything.
but if only the shooting stars
and eleven-elevens
were truer than my exhausted
mind.