I've got ink stains all over because I'm trying to wire myself into the ribbons of my typewriter. I'm mimicking the way the stamp hits the paper so that my voice can sound that addictive and that perfect. Writing all the ways I could never touch you in the sunlight, and all the things I wish I was whispering into your delicate aura right now. You're wrapped up in California snow and I'm drowning in my a leftover set of tears.
If you came home, I'd never leave your side.
If you held me once more, I'd love you until I die.
If you say you want me back, I'll find you exactly what you need.
Being suitable is going out of style.
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