I grab my pen and stare at the crisp sheet of paper, but I’m afraid to stain it with ink, to take away its innocence and corrupt it for my own satisfaction and gratification.
Kind of like the way you were afraid to touch me, to ruin me, to break me for your own selfish needs.
I have to finish being sad first, to know what happiness is with you.
I have to hear a couple lies to know what is true.
Talk to me dear,
Sit beside me, right here.
Let me rest my head upon your chest and place your hand on my breast
Does the rhythm match? Or do we harmonize?
I know that the…