Those lovely gazes aren’t for you to gaze back at,
Those hands aren’t yours to hold tightly at night,
Those sweaters he owns aren’t for you to wear when you’re cold,
Those warm embraces aren’t yours to seek for,
And those soft lips aren’t yours to kiss when the fireworks starts singing;
He’s not yours, and he will never be; yet every night you wish he was, so that you can do all those things with him.
He’s not yours, but there is someone who is; someone who seeks to hold you every night, someone who would gaze at you rather than the beautiful sunsets, who would give you their sweaters when you’re cold, who would give you those warm embraces you were seeking for all these years, and those soft lips are yours to kiss before, during, and after the fireworks have sung.