(This was written while I was drunk at a pub, so no judgment! :D)
I'm stuck here, drunk, thinking about you. Thinking about the girl at the bar. Stuck on your accent, your face, your hair. Stuck on your smile, your lips.
Stuck on you. Because I've seen you, I've known you now, and you're beautiful in my eyes.
But you're not stuck on me, and I get it. It's a shame.
But I'm leaving soon, and you're staying here. The bar is closing up and the drinks have gone flat. I'm still looking at you, but you've long since left the bar and gone home. And I'm here stuck, staring at a picture of your face.
Stuck on you.
If she saw me now, would she be ashamed, shocked, or stuck on me too?
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts
Poezja...from stories I will never write. Here are some things I would love to write in books but never have time to write.
