I was always leaving things behind in your little 8th floor apartment. Sometimes a toothbrush, sometimes my underwear. I still wonder if I subconsciously did that with the intention of having an excuse to return. Returning to grab a handful of your face.
You didn’t love me, I know I know.
You played with fire to entertain yourself and I needed fire to live.
You didn’t return my heart, the one I accidentally left in your room. (via twentyeighth-ofmarch)