The Stinson
If I had to pick something, I suppose
Her perfume would be what I choose
But there are few
to make her more like you
The sight of her shirtless back
Keeps your memory off track
Her hand across my chest
Is enough to let me rest
But she is to naive
Because I let her believe
That just for tonight
Happiness was in sight
Her beauty is masked by a disguise
One filled with my lies
But you’ve never woke up more alone
Than when her number isn’t in your phone
Copyright © Chad Weeks | Year Posted 2014
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