The Tempest Collection

Not Impossible

You want something written about you?

I don't think you do.

Since you've already said you don't know

what to think

about me and you.

What I would write really wouldn't help.

Like,

not at all.

Cause most of what I write about you,

in case you haven't noticed,

isn't something I can say in the stalls.

In the aisles,

in the store,

and at work, even more,

I catch your eye,

hope for that look,

that says what we can't

anymore.

We can't say that we're j*******,

we can't say how we feel,

or at least I can't,

no assuming,

maybe none of it's real.

But sometimes it looks

like you want me.

Or like maybe you would

if I said 'please.'

And there's that big, long list

of why we can't be together,

that if we started checking off now,

would still exist in December.

But I'm starting to not care.

I'm caring less that you're confused.

Cause if you're confused then that means

that maybe you see something too.

Misery loves company,

not saying we're miserable.

It just helps to know it crossed your mind,

the rare, but not impossible.