My palms open up, always.
As your fingers dance across,
and down, down in some kind of
fragmented ballet
sweeping up all I have left
to give to a boy
like you
I know how you are
You're the one
my mother warned me about
You're the
"I should of known better,
Should of learned,
Should of grown"
Everyone else is always right
But me,
I keep spinning the same circles,
until I'm completely dizzy with the thought
of such infactuation,
Always giving too much,
and receiving little to
nothing back
Your world could have been served
to you on a silver platter,
I would have came to you with
so much

love.

"Too much love,"
as you would say.
I had never heard of such a thing,
until I met you.