If I could only write you one word, maybe I wouldn't,
maybe I'd lock my heart away for some kind of eternity instead,
maybe I'd try to salvage what's left of myself,
before I tried to make any kind of headway with you or anybody else.

I can't even count the maybes I've been constructing on my fingers,
because there's more than five and five and that makes ten.
My bedroom is some kind of disaster and I don't think you'd approve,
of the way things are scattered,
you told me once that you were a perfectionist, and I said I was the same,
but you kind of never believed me,
I don't blame you, because I tend to lie half of the time and sometimes more.

I can't even count the times you've caught me staring.

We had a conversation about eye colour and you said mine was kind of special,
apparently you rate women on how many shades and colours their eyes produce,
I'm rating high, and I have a fever, but I know you'll never admit that I'm hot,
just very warm.