Things aren't always black and white.
Actally, almost never.
There's more to you,
Then meets the eye.
More to me, then the gold hair,
Whispering to you,
Through the wind.
I belive,
That sometimes,
I'm too much.
Too
Much
L
o
v
e
I've only got a year
Let me,
And I'll let you.
at dusk
sun setting on an april day in paris
I messaged you
as if I was sending letters
by carrier pigeon
to an enemy fort
hidden in the alps
at first
you were the loud boy on the bus
with a red lunchbox
full of day old spaghetti in a dented thermos
and parmesan your dad brought back from italy
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