She's three hundred shades of cigarette ash, lonely and please-dont-go.
Maybe she'd count the seconds so as not to forget a moment. Standing half-naked and heart deep in your arms she burns like the ocean. Maybe if you wait a little you can make something beautiful out of the rubble in her eyes. Pull it to pieces, build her back up. Is she too much for you?
Maybe she'd take your heart in her hands from thousands of miles away. She wants to know she can do that, maybe she wants to mean something, something invaluable, something that can shake you from half a country away. She's throwing away parts of her heart, sealed in bottles and tossed in the ocean, tittled "things I should have told you."
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