When she calls I can hear the tears in her voice.
They bubble deep inside a well,
Dark and cold and strong,
And overflow sometimes.
And I know that I am the source
And sometimes I think,
"Maybe I should die,"
That'd really give her something to cry about.
But that makes me feel sick.
And so I whisper that it will be okay,
I try to make her laugh,
I try to stem the salt-tide of tears
That I have caused.
And I never really do any good
And things'll probably be worse next time
And I know it.
But still I try because she loves me.
And I love her.
And we haunt each other like bad memories
And we can't stop.
And the best we can hope for is that,
Between phone calls,
We forget our miserable romance for a while.
No comments:
Post a Comment