You don't tell people how you want to be loved,
that's their privilege to read between the lines,
to figure out what you are really made of.
It's like little secrets unknowingly being told,
the deep breaths as you fall asleep,
little murmurs, saying it's with you, I want to grow old.
You can't overlook them, even if they are still so small,
like fingerprints pointing you to the right direction,
to tell me you love me or just tell me anything at all.
It's the danger of taking someone for granted,
not paying attention to the small sign,
it will seem so trivial until she says so blatant -
you never gave me your heart, so you can no longer have mine.