We were young, you pressed flowers while I
attempted poetry. It was a long time ago, almost
like another life I never lived. You looked at me
with the devil's eyes and said, "You can be
the angel kissin' on a sinner and I'll be the boy
on the porch steps drawing the map that'll get us
out of here someday."

"It'll be harmless fun," you smiled, but you didn't know
what fun is back then. You were the angel kissin' on me.
I guess that makes me the sinner, I was hardly in high school
and already tainted by lust, painted black, and splattered
with red. But I didn't tell you because I knew what you'd say.

We were young, you pressed flowers while I
attempted poetry. Hiding in a red leather diary.
If only you could see now the secrets that pages made
of stardust could keep when a person's young but not free.
I remember the way you used stones to write my name
on the beach and hope to etch my face in the snow.

That was when being in love was easy - all you had to do
was smile and say the words everyone else was saying.
when kissing was cute and running away together was sweet.
It was a simple time, long ago, when you saw my wings
as silk and made me a halo of daisies. We were young,
you pressed flowers while I wrote you poetry.

We were young, you pressed flowers while I
wrote you poetry. Line after line of pure emotion you
would never understand. Words you were too innocent
to comprehend, meanings I was just barely corrupt enough
to pen out for the world. You pressed flowers that waited
between pages of stardust for years that later became
decorations for the cover of my novel. The one I dedicated
to you for never being a first, but for loving me enough to
stick around anyway.