You ripped me open like a present on Christmas Day.

Cold hands in a warm bed on a dark night.

The Eskimos and butterflies taught me how to kiss you.

You smell like cinnamon and shampoo and too many tears.

Jumping rope and sticky grins and blacktop promises in chalk.

I would trade my sanity for another kiss with you.

Sharing music with you was like reading you my diary.

Soiled sheets tell stories I could never bear to share.

Sometimes I wonder if you really smoke to **** yourself.

You taste like sin and safety at the same time.

I remember holding your hand, never wanting to let go.

Kiss me like I am oxygen and you're on Mars.

The lines on your hands are rivers, whispering your past.

Good music and elephants and heartbreak remind me of you.