You look out the train window, I look at you.
We both make believe there is something to see.
There isn’t, not really, just this:
I am seeing you, and you’re not seeing me –
For the one thousand and first time,
I’m telling you a story you don’t want to hear.
Love, and you, and me –
Forget about it. Let’s not,
I won’t, you never wanted to.
The ashes you leave: remnants of you, of me, love? –
Well, maybe not, but still… close as fuck. (As fucking?)
Oh, I know, I know you don’t understand.
I’ll mop up the mess you left behind, and not tell you about it.
Let’s pretend the stains on my sheets are tears.
Would that make it easier?
But you don’t like it when I cry.
So I, I do my best to tell you something true.
Something you would want to hear,
something that won’t grate my ears for years to come.
I would like to be honest,
I would like to tell you you’re the best–
Only you’re not. You’re a hot sizzling coal of regret.
I’ve burnt my hands to cinders on your boiling sweat.
So I am naturally astounded –
how come you don’t love me yet?