Isn't it ironic?
As you would lay awake at night thinking of him, I would lay awake thinking of you. The times when I would call you and you wished it was him. How I'd take you to restaurants, then you’d take him to the same ones. The moments I would kiss your neck and you’d quiver with your eyes shut imagining it was his lips and not mine.
Isn’t it ironic?
You broke me the same way he broke you. The moments I’d embrace you in my arms and look into your eyes and see a future, possibilities, and compassion. Yet you looked into mine and saw nothing. Because I wasn’t him. No matter how hard I wanted to be I couldn't be him, and no matter how hard you tried you couldn't make yourself believe it.