You sir, are the apple of my eye.
You are the stitches holding my wound together.
You are the glue holding the pages to my spine.
You make me whole.
You are yes ma'am polite and southern pretty.
Rough hands and a soft smile
You make me swoon.
You are are all smiles and good graces
until the whiskey makes you mean.
Then you are fire
Eyes blazing to hot to touch
You break my bones like shattered glass
You paint my skin like the sun setting on a murky lake
You sing a sad sad song and I want to make you okay
You swing like you are hitting a fast pitch ball
lights out
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
You sir, are the apple of my eye.
You are the stitches holding my wound together.
You are the glue holding the pages to my spine.
You make me whole.
You are yes ma'am polite and southern pretty.
Rough hands and a soft smile
You make me swoon.
You are are all smiles and good graces
until the whiskey makes you mean.
Then you are fire
Eyes blazing to hot to touch
You break my bones like shattered glass
You paint my skin like the sun setting on a murky lake
You sing a sad sad song and I want to make you okay
You swing like you are hitting a fast pitch ball
lights out
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