Sometimes I stare out my window when I think of you.
It's okay that I'm not the girl of your dreams, or the one you took to prom. It's okay that I'm just a jaded memory, and not the one held in your arms.
I just want to be the girl who moved on. Who's curly hair you think about twenty years from now when you mow the lawn, wishing you didn't trim it so low because now it's too short to resemble the wind blowing through my wild curls.
And when you think it's over, and reality's resumed, I'll be the girl you think about while you have your morning coffee. You'll sit at your desk, coffee in hand, wishing you hadn't poured so much milk in because now it's too creamy to resemble my dark brown eyes.
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