he calls me love when he's mad
his sweetheart when he's sad
he calls me a wilting flower in the sun
a fragile broken piece of glass when we're done.
He brings me blossoms in the spring
in the fall, always nothing
in the winter he leaves my toes cold
but my heart is always a bit too bold
and in the morning it reaches out
and is left to wander home a different route.
I lay in bed, lost at night
not knowing if his love for me is right
for when the morning comes and all is light
I never miss him, or his plight.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
he calls me love when he's mad
his sweetheart when he's sad
he calls me a wilting flower in the sun
a fragile broken piece of glass when we're done.
He brings me blossoms in the spring
in the fall, always nothing
in the winter he leaves my toes cold
but my heart is always a bit too bold
and in the morning it reaches out
and is left to wander home a different route.
I lay in bed, lost at night
not knowing if his love for me is right
for when the morning comes and all is light
I never miss him, or his plight.