You asked me if I liked
writing and I replied “It’s
alright,” while I held a pen
and paper in my hand and
wrote about the coffee color
of your eyes that would always
help me wake up every morning
and you asked me if I wanted to
be a writer someday while I wrote
about your lips and how they reminded
me of the sunset and your teeth the
color of the moon and I told you, “No.
I don’t want to be stuck writing about
someone that no longer gives a damn
about me.” And as I said that, I wrote
about your laugh that I can no longer
remember clearly.
It’s ironic, isn’t it?  (via dollpoetry)