Why's my life all about you? How can it be like this when my life is supposed to be mine? Every time I see you I want to touch you; I want you to touch me. Something is wrong here; it seems I'm the only who gives a damn about you, about me, about an us, or lack there of. I'll go home and sit and stew about you, about your eyes, about your smile, about how I want you to love me. There's always tomorrow, another chance for you, me, us. If that doesn't work, tomorrow has a tomorrow too.