I miss the sound of crunching leaves, victim to our druken teen feet.
My soul aches for the way you used to look at me.
I miss the way you'd line up with the trees, smile at me and breathe in disease.
Almost as beautiful as the smoke in your lungs. I miss a lot of things, but I'll never miss what we've become.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
I miss the sound of crunching leaves, victim to our druken teen feet.
My soul aches for the way you used to look at me.
I miss the way you'd line up with the trees, smile at me and breathe in disease.
Almost as beautiful as the smoke in your lungs. I miss a lot of things, but I'll never miss what we've become.