You and I were fireworks that went off too soon; I left you broken, and never knew.
I thought you'd be happy, with him and Henry and everyone else, but apparently you loved me, and I broke you that night.
I told myself I'd never miss you; maybe I don't, maybe I do. But the truth is I crave your smile, I crave your teases when I buy grilled cheese, and kale salad for you.
I miss how I used to sleep on your couch on Saturdays when Storybrooke was at peace and I can hang around your place. We'd watch a movie with Henry, then he'd go up for homework, then we'll watch one more movie, usually romance, alone, together.
You tell me I fall asleep in the middle of the movie, and my head just drops, like a bowling ball, on your knees. So I wake up every Sunday morning tucked in on your couch, with a note on the table saying 'are you sure this isn't your house?' And I'd groan and get up, just to find you in the kitchen, and again I am unsuccessful when I try to steal some bacon.
But sometimes you fall asleep, and your head plops on my shoulder, and I fall asleep too; my head on your head, your head on my shoulder.
I didn't think I'd miss those days when I'm with you. I didn't think I'd miss you, but apparently, I'm in love with you.
You and I were fireworks that went off too soon, and now I wish you wouldn't love me because I shouldn't love you too.