It was raining,
It always rains on Thursdays.
We all had big dreams
But baby, everyone’s a poet in love with anything.
Still, my cynicism wans
as I watch the city lights fade.
And my cliché core steers my thoughts
back to you.
I think I was made to be mute.
Your words were always sweeter,
Your thoughts always more complete.
Nonsensical perfection pouring from your tongue
in lyrics and verse.
I always think better at one in the morning
when there’s no one around to hear.
And it was always harder to put thoughts into words
when you’re on my mind.