december

You gave him the clouds, the sunsets, the stars.

You gave him your 3am wishes on mars.

You gave him 13 handwritten diary entries,

You gave him enough pen ink for centuries.

He gave you a rose, the 26th on December.

He gave you nothing before, 'cause he didn't remember.

You gave him your heart till months became years.

But your heart is a precious thing, and

his diary is blank. He has a thousand roses

for the other 13 girls. He

doesn't

love you. Your heart

is a precious thing, and no matter how much

it wants to leap out of your chest, fly

through the sky, the sunset, the stars, to him

It may be yours to give

But it's not his to take. He

doesn't

deserve it. Doesn't deserve

you.