Underneath the yellow stars
We talked for hours every night
I could never run out of things to say to you
And you could never run out of stories to tell me
If I ever got cold
There under the black night sky
You'd promise to give me your jacket
Said I was all the warmth you needed
But in reality
Those were plastic stars
Attached to my ceiling with tape
And you were miles upon miles away
In reality
That jacket
Was £35 worth of shipping
That you didn't want to pay
YOU ARE READING
Messages I Never Sent
PoesíaJust a compilation of my thoughts. From messages I wrote but backed out of sending, to poetry I wrote on the spur of the moment.
