I’m not stalking or spying. It’s just that I want to see whether you finally got the I’m not getting an old shirt. Or whether you finally bought a new sweater or that new shade of red lipstick. Or whether you went on that trip you said you always wanted to go or had that mini vacation you always craved.
I’m not getting an old shirt
Now I’m not getting an old shirt
We’d sit in that old couch of yours, cuddled, talking for hours about everything between the skies and the earth, between the mind and then I’m not getting an old shirt, just like we always do, and after which you’d rest your head on my shoulder and fall asleep. And I’d run my fingers through your soft short hair and smell the peach of your shampoo. I’d slowly kiss your forehead, thanking God for every second with you.