Hurts

Our pink sky is no longer black and white.
My old days haunt me.
To me, love was just an empty sheet of paper, ‘twas nothing.
‘Twas just a plain shirt, if didn't fit me, it's alright.
But when it's you, who was entitled "mine",

Became a masterpiece written in an empty sheet, the more I love you, the more it hurts.

Your words are precious yet painful.
It was me who crafted a piece about you.
No, it was my love who wrote about you.
It was really easy at first.
It was easy to make a start, but now it's hard to end.
What should I do?
I am making you want to leave.
Do I deserve to be alone again like I used to?
If you hate me the way I am, I hate myself more than you do.
But Babe, losing you would really suck.