She loves me, she loves me not.
Profoundly, I'm stuck in her jean pocket and I can't seem to escape. Gasping, I latch, grab, push on anything I can. Look at it this way: the lint correlates to what's keeping me away from her pretty facade. Thinking nor dreaming will not do anything. I've done my part. I hate how I've always gone beyond "opening myself to her" and got no cigar. Literally, just thrown back into her pocket of convenience as I linger in anticipation; forgotten as I drown in a conglomeration of H20 and Tide. Don't forget to wash inside out. Afterwords, I embark in a tumble dry on low heat of pain not only on my exterior, but the part that beats the most. God, why do we have have an organ shaped with a triangle and a butt?
Give love a try, one more time.
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