The furnace, the one I grew up with in my parents home.
Well, she sits on the red sofa now, clicking through Netflix options.
I'm pondering my luck with her artistic pose.
My poetic style, it doesn't fit. I've never wrote.
Glancing at her tattoos and her skin makes sense.
"Everything that has to do with a baby, it's a reflex," she says.
How can I not?
She's now reading a textbook.
I should have listened to more NPR, maybe not.
She holds her fingers to her lips while she reads.
Now, I definitely should have listened to more NPR.
But, I didn't. And as she sprawls out on my red couch in comfort I know, again, that I love her.
Cliché? Yes, but **** it.
It's newfound love.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
The furnace, the one I grew up with in my parents home.
Well, she sits on the red sofa now, clicking through Netflix options.
I'm pondering my luck with her artistic pose.
My poetic style, it doesn't fit. I've never wrote.
Glancing at her tattoos and her skin makes sense.
"Everything that has to do with a baby, it's a reflex," she says.
How can I not?
She's now reading a textbook.
I should have listened to more NPR, maybe not.
She holds her fingers to her lips while she reads.
Now, I definitely should have listened to more NPR.
But, I didn't. And as she sprawls out on my red couch in comfort I know, again, that I love her.
Cliché? Yes, but **** it.
It's newfound love.
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