Perhaps it's the way your hair curls on its ends,
or your bold honesty, or the way
I feel more real around you.
The way you can be ice cold or warmer than
my morning tea. How could I not like you,
when you make me like everything a little more?
I trust that love isn't what everyone says and
I believe what hurts is its lack. And you've hurt
me but who hasn't? Even I have.
With you I feel in technicolor, and even if
loving and telling is like handing a gun and
trusting not to be shot I say I trust.