July 21, 2016 - 20:10
Credits to tumblr

 The problem is, the presence of you is what I fond of.

 You're warm, sometimes, but I'm just a weather so it doesn't matter that much. I'm cold, sometimes, and sometimes hot, depends on what my head is thinking. 

 It's a battle up there.

 And you're like a sword, sometimes, you built in another wound. Yet sometimes you heal, as if you're a shield.

 You're like an old book, you know, the kind that's hard to find. And even if it can be found in the end, doesn't mean you can be read. You have history in you that makes you—you, and that thing keeps on keeping me awake.

 You're a bomb, sometimes, unexpected.

 And when you're found, it's the end of you, you have exploded.

 In pieces.

 Like how I found you, shattered into pieces.

 Like a fool.

 -a.m.

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