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.
the mornings are misty,
cold and dark.
my head hurts as I haul myself out of bed,
put on clothes that clearly don't go well together,
and set off through the fog of dawn.
fresh out of the plane,
weary eyed and sickly pale,
I trudge.
deep within my suitcase, I carry a passport I don't want to show to anyone,
even if they ask for ID.
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