You Him

With You I wake with crust in my eyes unable to unjust my sight Disheveled and torn can't put a comb through my hair because you tangled and sweated in my roots my jeans kicked under the bed and I couldn't find my left shoe, but my stuff really didn’t’ matter to you anyway. With Him I wake with the sun able to see the light in his smile, for it knows me he combs his fingers through my hair each strand falling adjacent to him his room is peace and my clothes folded away in his space I think I’ll choose Him And You can go away.