Sweeter than Sin.

Poetry was never meant to be sung,
So, here I am, singing the story of my life.
With colored paper and dying lyrics,
Shaped like the last piece of my heart,
Tucked inside my drawer.
My palm,
Your name,
Scratched on with something
I know isn't ink.
Did I scribble you onto my mind so much
I forgot myself?
I still know how to spell the sunsets I stare at,
Paper clipped to my eyes,
And never knowing why.
Watching the stars appear one by one,
Making me feel,
Like it's worth being a romantic.