Every time I wake up I count all my fingers
because my hands might be the only complete thing
I have today, It’s a funny thing that we smoke more
cigarettes than we say I love you, if all you
have is a grey haze to comfort you I’de chase after
it with you, but grey clouds turn into rain and rain
turns into sleep and I’ll be left counting my fingers
again, waiting for you to run out of tobacco
No comments:
Post a Comment