He's rusty and busted but he's mine. When he sings it
He's rusty and busted but he's mine.
When he sings it sounds like the dreams I have of summer.
When he laughs it's like a dark, dusty room with a ray of
light peaking through the curtains.
His eyes are the ocean during a storm and his hair is the
He smokes a cigarrette like its the end of the world.
He plays like he was born doing it, a legend.
Careless, carefree, slow, and steady.
He's perfect and graceful, an old soul.
Just the right shade of green with just the right amount of
His heart and his touch, always cold.
He doesn't feel me kiss him.
The look in his eye is far away as he sits on the edge of my bed,
window open, rain pouring.
The image night after night as I fall asleep.
The only thing left in the morning is his sweet smoky scent and a
half empty lighter on the window sill.
He leaves it for me to smoke squares, alone.
I can still feel where his soft kiss touched my forehead as he
pushed my hair back before he left, like he was never there at
I wake up every morning with a broken heart.
Every night I hear his truck door slam down the street and wait
for him to climb through my window and put me back together.
Every night we fall in love, every morning it never happened.
He's the chill that runs through me when its 360 degrees.
He's my every thought, like being in love without the
He's mine, Im his.
Every song he writes is for me but every song he sings is for
He's here in my arms but he's so far away.
Im right here but not by choice.
He's the sun, the moon and the stars.
The one and only.