I throw my almost lovers like crumpled paper in the corner of the room, I aim for the bin but lean ever so slightly to the side so it won't ever go in.

Tip toeing back every now and then to un-crumple them and read through every crease of what could've been,
of course, its no good, again.

Thrown right back into the pile of whats no good, but here I have a fragile heart that wants the creases to change the story.

Here I am,
Here I am, wishing you would.