We aren't even sure of ourselves, how can we be sure of everyone else? |
It pains me when I speak,
of those nights spent alone...
One thousand and one open doors,
Fifteen pages of a single verse...
I'm drunk on love and falling hard.
The taste of coffee, your strawberry hair...
Like the scars that line her arms,
amid a dark and blackened heart...
I panic.
Not just worry, but full on panic...